PS 
2397 
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MAIN 


•NRLF 


FORTY- NINE 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 


I 


GIFT  OF 


FORTY- NINE 

AN  IDYL  DRAMA  OF  THE  SIERRAS 

(IN  FOUR  ACTS) 
BY 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

WHITAKER  &  RAY-WIGGIN  CO. 

1910 


rHIS  is  a  reader's  edition,  and  the 
dramatic  rights  of  the  play  are 
reserved.    Permission  to  stage  may  be 
obtained  from  3Klr.  ^Ciller  through 
his  publishers. 


Copyright  by  C.  H. 
1910 


FORTY-NINE  — AN  IDYL  DRAMA  OF 
THE  SIERRAS 

IN    FOUR   ACTS 


256380 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

FORTY-NINE.—^  relic  of  bygone  days.  "I've 
been  here  since  '49,  and  I  reckon  I  ought  to 
know." 

CHARLES  DEVINE.— "My  Pard." 

LUCKY  TOM  GULLY.— A  real,  heavy  villian, 
who  becomes  chief  of  the  Vigilantes. 

COL.  SNOWE.— An  old  lawyer,  "who  never  lost 
a  case." 

COL.  BILLY.— "A  total  wreck." 
BLACK  SAM.— An  aged  colored  person. 
CAPT.  HAMPTON.— Captain  of  Vigilantes. 

CARROTS.— "Twenty-four  karots  fine  and  all 
pure  gold." 

OLD  MISSISSIP.— Saloon  keeper. 
BELLE.— Reputed  daughter  of  Mississip. 
MRS.  DEVINE.— Mother  of  Charles. 


64] 


FORTY-NINE  — AN  IDYL  DRAMA  OF 
THE  SIERRAS 

IN    FOUR    ACTS 
ACT  I. 


SCENE:     Mrs.  Devine's  Parlor:     Nauvoo. — Table, 

C.,  with  book. 
Sam  discovered  seated  reading.    Knock  at  door. 

SAM.  Massa  Charley,  spec'.  Come  in  sah. 
(Enter  Gully.)  Tain't  Massa  Charley. 

GULLY.    Where's  your  Missis,  Sam? 

SAM.    Gone  to  prayer-meetin',  sah. 

GULLY.  (Aside.)  Good!  (Aloud.)  Gone  to 
prayer-meeting,  eh?  Well,  reckon  I'll  wait  till  she 
gets  back.  Bring  me  a  match. 

SAM.  Gemmen,  don't  smoke  in  lady's  parlor, 
sah!  Wish  to  de  Lord,  Massa  Charley  was  done 
come  home,  I  do. 

GULLY.  Well,  he  ain't  coming  home.  He  won't 
come  home  no  more. 

SAM.  What!  Massa  Charley?  Massa  Charley? 
Speak  it  low  and  kind  o'  soft  like,  fur  maybe  his 
mother  might  be  comin'  in  at  dat  door,  sah,  and 
hear  you.  Not  comin'  home  no  more?  I  say, 
Massa  Gully,  don't  joke  dat  way. 

GULLY.  He  don't  come  home  no  more,  I  tell 
you.  There,  thought  I  had  a  match.  He's  gone  I 
say.  (Bites  off  end  of  cigar,  lights  it  and  sits, 
throwing  one  leg  over  table.) 

SAM.  Gone?  Gone  off  anywhere?  Not  sick? 
Not  dead,  Massa  Gully? 

[65] 


FORTY-NINE 

GULLY.  No,  gone.  Gone  to  California,  and  I've 
come  to  say  good-bye  to  his  mother  for  him.  He 
didn't  have  time. 

SAM.  Somethin's  wrong.  I  tell  you  there's 
somethin'  wrong.  It  ain't  Massa  Charley's  way  fur 
to  go  fur  to  leave  his  poor  old  mother  like  dat. 
Charley's  a  bit  wild,  and  de  like,  and  he  do  keep 
bad  company.  You  is  his  busum  friend,  Massa 
Gully.  But  he  ain't  de  boy  fur  to  go  and  send  you 
to  say  good-bye.  Somethin's  wrong.  Somethin's 
powerful  wrong. 

GULLY.  Yes,  there  is  something  wrong  Sam,  if 
you  must  know ;  something  is  powerful  wrong.  But 
there ;  go,  do  you  hear  ? 

SAM.  (Snatching  away  Bible  and  nearly  up 
setting  Gully.)  Want  to  make  things  more  com 
fortable  for  your  legs ;  thought  the  Bible  might  hurt 
you,  you  know.  (Exit  L.  limping,  and  dodging 
hymn  book.) 

GULLY.  (Solus.)  Poor,  silly  Charley  didn't 
have  the  heart  to  come  back  and  say  good-bye  to  his 
old  mother,  and  so  I  came  for  him  and  to  get  some 
papers  from  Snowe.  (Enter  Col.  Snowe  with  bag. 
L.  followed  by  Sam.) 

SNOWE.  Not  here,  Sam?  Why,  he  promised  to 
meet  me  here;  promised  to  be  at  home  here,  wait 
ing  for  me. 

SAM.  Berry  sorry,  Massa  Snowe;  but  he  is  not 
here.  P'raps  dat  gemman  knows  whar  he  is,  Massa 
Snowe.  (Aside.)  Lor'!  I  wish  he  war  a  gem 
man. 

GULLY.     Ah!  good  evening,  Judge  Snowe,  good 

evening.   Delighted  to  see  you ;  yes  Judge,  delighted 

to  see  you.     Charley  has  gone.     Your  favorite  and 

confidential  clerk  could  not  bear  to  say  good-bye  to 

[66] 


FORTY-NINE 

his  mother,  so  he  sent  me,  you  know,  to  say  good 
bye  for  him  and  bring  the  papers. 

SNOWE.  But,  he  has  not  gone?  He  only  to-day 
promised  to  meet  me  here ;  and  he  will  be  here. 

GULLY.  He  will  not  be  here;  I  saw  him  to  the 
boat  myself.  (Enter  Charles  Devine,  drunk.)  What! 
you  back? 

DEVINE.  Back  again,  like  a  bad  penny.  You 
see  Gully — you  see,  I  was  waiting  for  the  boat  to 
start,  such  a  crowd.  Well,  (hie)  while  I  was 
waiting  I  went  below,  where  you  took  me  once.  I 
saw  the  game  going  on.  "All  down !  Down  your 
bets  !  Monte  !  Faro  !  Roulette !  Forty  to  one 
on  the  eagle-bird!  (hie)  Forty  to  one  on  the 
eagle-bird  at  Roulette !" 

GULLY.     I  hope  you  won. 

DEVINE.  "Forty  to  one  on  the  eagle-bird!" 
Just  think  of  it.  Forty  times  five  hundred — twenty 
thousand  dollars — and  you  in  with  me,  you  know. 

GULLY.  (Aside.)  Why,  he  has  won  twenty 
thousand  dollars !  By  the  holy  poker !  A  fool  for 
luck.  (Aloud.)  We  were  both  in  together,  you 
know,  Charley. 

DEVINE.  Yes,  (hie)  both  in  together,  you  know. 
Well  (hie)  I  just  took  my  five  hundred  dollars  in 
my  fist  so,  you  know,  (hie)  and  I  marched  straight 
up  to  that  table,  and  I  planked  her  down  on  the 
eagle-bird — every  cent — and  cried,  "Roll !  Roll ! 
Turn!  Turn!  Turn!  Five  hundred  dollars  on  the 
eagle-bird!  Twenty  thousand  dollars  or  nothing! 
Turn!  Turn!!  Turn!!!" 

GULLY.     Well !     Well !     You  won,  and 

DEVINE.  Five  hundred  dollars  on  the  eagle- 
bird  !  Twenty  thousand  or  nothing !  Turn ! 

GULLY.     Well,  well. 

[67] 


FORTY-NINE 

DEVINE.     And  he  turned,  you  know,  and 

GULLY.     And,  and 

DEVINE.    And  the  eagle-bird  (hie)  lost. 

GULLY.     O,  the  drunken  fool 

SNOWE.  Charley!  Charley!  You  are  drinking 
again.  You  will  break  your  old  mother's  heart. 

DEVINE.  My  mother!  Don't  say  a  word  to  her! 
I — I — will  reform  to-morrow. 

SNOWE.  Well,  well,  Charley.  About  this  busi 
ness  of  mine.  Come;  be  sober;  be  a  man.  You 
promised  to  start  on  this  business  this  very  night. 
You  are  a  man  I  can  trust.  Can  you  go?  Are  you 
fit  to  go  ?  Do  you  understand  what  you  have  to  do  ? 

DEVINE.  Let  me  see.  A  girl — a  child  of  one  of 
the  old  families — a  lost  girl  that  our  Sam  had  charge 
of,  one  of  the  orphans  of  the  Mountain  Meadow 
Massacre,  is  now  an  heiress — a  great  estate  waiting 
for  her.  And — and — you  just  yesterday  found  out 
that  she  is  in  the  mountains  of  California. 

GULLY.  (Aside.)  An  heiress — an  heiress?  If 
I  can  only  get  those  papers,  the  girl  and  her  fortune 
are  mine.  (Takes  out  note-book  and  makes  notes.) 

DEVINE.  I  am  to  go  and  find  her.  My  salary 
you  are  to  hand  over  to  my  mother,  till  I  return. 

SNOWE.  Right,  right,  my  boy.  But  now  you 
must  be  off,  you  have  a  through  ticket  in  your 
pocket.  If  you  have  gambled  off  your  money  you 
would  do  it  again :  no,  not  another  cent !  Sam ! 

SAM.     Yes,  Massa  Snowe. 

SNOWE.  You  really  believe  you  would  know  that 
child  still? 

SAM.  Shuah,  Massa  Snowe?  Shuah !  I  would 
know  dat  chile,  why  I  would  know  dat  chile  in 
Jerusalem.  Why,  Massa  Snowe,  she'd  know  dis  old 

[68] 


FORTY-NINE 

black  face  for  sure.  She'd  come  right  up  to  dis  old 
cripple  now. 

SNOWE.  Ah!  But  you  must  remember,  Sam,  it 
is  now  more  than  twelve  years  since  the  Danites 
and  Indians  murdered  her  parents,  and  took  her 
from  your  arms  on  the  plains,,  and  she  was  hardly 
four  years  old  at  the  time. 

SAM.  But  I'd  know  her,  shuah.  And  she — she'd 
know  old  Sam's  black  face  anywhere.  Dar  ain't 
many  of  my  kind,  Massa  Snowe,  up  in  dem  white 
mountains,  and  den,  O,  Massa  Snowe,  she'd  know 
my  songs.  She'd  fly  to  me  like  a  bird,  she  would. 

SNOWE.  Your  songs?  Did  you  sing  to  her 
much,  Sam? 

SAM.  Allers,  allers.  On  dem  ole  plains,  Massa 
Snowe.  Why,  she  knowed  my  songs,  every  one. 
She'd  sing  a  vus,  and  I'd  sing  a  vus,  and  you  see, 
if  she'd  hear  me  sing  now,  she'd  come  a  runnin' 
right  to  me.  'Fore  God  she  would,  Massa  Snowe. 

SNOWE.  Capital  idea!  Capital  idea!  Charley, 
you  must  be  off,  and  at  once.  (Takes  out  papers.} 
These  papers  will  give  you  directions  where  you 
may  find  the  girl,  and  give  you  full  authority  to  act 
when  she  is  found.  There  is  a  false  claimant,  but 
this  will  be  conviction  strong  as  holy  writ.  Now, 
Sam,  you  can  go;  and  remember,  if  this  girl  is 
found,  your  fortune  is  made. 

SAM.  I  don't  want  no  fortune,  Massa  Snowe. 
I  wants  to  see  dat  chile  once  more  before  I  dies — 
poor,  poor  baby  in  de  mountains. 

SNOWE.  I  say,  Sam!  Do  you  think  there  are 
any  marks  by  which  she  can  be  identified? 

SAM.  Marks?  Marks?  Massa  Snowe,  marks 
dat  she  will  take  wid  her  to  her  coffin,  yes !  Why, 
dar  come  de  Danites,  painted  red,  and  howlin' 

[69] 


FORTY-NINE 

and  a  choppin',  and  a  shootin',  and  a  stabbin'.  O, 
Massa  Snowe,  it  makes  me  sorry ;  it  makes  me  sick, 
to  t'ink  of  it.  A  whole  heap  of  men  and  women 
heaped  togeder  in  he  grass  and  dusty  road,  dead. 
And  den,  dis  little  gal  a  'nestlin'  up  to  me,  a  hidin' 
in  ole  Sam's  busum,  de  blood  a  runnin'  down  her 
arm,  and  all  her  folks  dead.  A  great  big  gash  dar. 
(Pointing  to  arm.)  Know  her?  Know  dat  chile? 
I'd  know  dat  chile  in  Jerusalem,  I  would. 

DEVINE.  Why,  my  poor  old  Sam,  don't  break 
up  that  way. 

SNOWE.  That,  Charley,  is  the  child  you  are  to 
find.  A  large  tract  of  land  in  Santa  Clara,  on  which 
a  city  has  since  been  built,  was  the  property  of 
the  family,  who  were  on  their  way  to  take  posses 
sion  at  the  time  of  the  massacre,  and  she  is  now 
sole  heiress  to  the  entire  estate,  which  is  of  enor 
mous  value.  Of  course  there  are  many  pretenders 
to  this  fortune,  but  this  I  know  is  the  real  heiress. 

GULLY.  (Aside.)  It's  the  biggest  thing  out — 
a  mine  of  gold.  A  regular  Bononza  mine  to  any  one 
who  has  the  nerve  to  work  it. 

SNOWE.  (Glasses  on  and  examining  papers.) 
She  is  a  woman  now,  I  suppose.  You  see,  in  the 
great  Mountain  Meadow  Massacre,  the  Indians, 
led  by  the  Danites,  killed  all  except  the  children  of 
three  and  four  years  of  age.  The  little  orphans, 
forty  or  fifty  in  number,  were  taken  up  by  the  Mor 
mons-  and  Indians,  and  in  a  few  years  were  almost 
forgotten.  I  have  sent  agents  searching  every 
where,  but  have  always  been  disappointed.  But 
now,  I  have  a  new  hope  and  with  care  it  shall  be 
come  a  reality.  (Rises  and  crosses  stage.  To 
Devine.)  It  is  a  beautiful  and  strange  superstition 
of  the  Indians  that  they  will  not  kill  a  negro. 

[70] 


FORTY-NINE 

DEVINE.     An  Indian  will  not  kill  a  negro? 

SNOWE.  No.  An  Indian  of  the  plains  will  not 
kill  a  negro.  In  this  case  they  spared  poor  old  Sam 
only  because  he  was  black.  The  Indians  took  her 
from  his  arms  and  let  him  go.  I  have  great  hope. 
For,  if  the  child  can  remember  anything  at  all,  she 
will  remember  old  black  Sam.  Charley,  it  shall  be 
your  task  to  find  her. 

DEVINE.     A  delightful  task!      I  shall  so  like  to 

fet  out  and  up  into  the  mountains,  and  heart  of  the 
ierras ;  such  scenery  !  such  air !  The  smell  of  the 
fir  and  tamarack !  Ah !  I  shall  reform  there. 

SNOWE.  (Handing  papers  to  Charley.)  You 
are  to  take  these  papers,  go  directly  to  the  Sierras, 
and  sit  down  there  quietly  in  the  heart  of  the  moun 
tains,  get  acquainted  with  her  there;  get  her  con 
fidence;  find  out  what  she  remembers  of  her  old 
negro  and  all.  Then  make  your  application  to  the 
courts  in  behalf  of  this  orphan  child,  and  present 
your  papers  and  authority.  And  if  really  necessary, 
I  will  come  with  black  Sam,  to  satisfy  the  laws  and 
the  State.  (Retires  up  stage.) 

GULLY.  (Aside.)  I  have  an  envelope  and  legal 
papers  like  those  in  my  pocket.  I  was  sued  the 
other  day.  He  is  still  half  drunk.  If  I  could  only 
exchange  them.  (To  Devine.)  She  is  very  rich, 
you  say? 

DEVINE.  The  richest  girl,  perhaps,  in  California. 
A  city  has  been  built  on  her  lands,  fortunately,  and 
there  is  no  computing  her  wealth. 

GULLY.  Charley,  you  go  at  once!  Go!  I  see 
a  fortune  in  it — a  fortune — do  you  hear?  And  I'm 
in  with  you,  you  know.  Go,  find  this  girl.  Find 
her,  woo  her,  win  her,  marry  her.  And  don't  let 
her  know  she  is  an  heiress  until  it's  all  over.  The 

[71] 


FORTY-NINE 

biggest  thing  in  America.  Woo  her,  win  her,  marry 
her,  before  she  knows  anything  about  her  good 
fortune.  Charley,  my  boy,  I  congratulate  you!  I 
say  that  is  the  biggest  thitag  in  America.  Go  up 
there  in  the  mountains  in  your  good  clothes,  and 
take  plenty  of  perfumery  along  with  you,  and  you 
can  win  that  mountain  girl  in  less  than  a  month. 
And  when  you  have  got  the  girl,  send  for  old  black 
Sam ;  prove  her  identity  yourself,  and  let  old  Snowe 
go  to  the  devil.  And  we're  pards. 

DEVINE.     But  this  is  unworthy  of 

GULLY.  There  you  go  again,  with  your  heart. 
All  heart,  and  no  head.  ,  Go,  do  as  I  tell  you ;  but 
be  sure  you  take  plenty  of  perfumery  with  you, 
women  like  perfumery.  Few  women  can  reason, 
but  all  women  can  smell.  Take  plenty  of  perfumery. 

DEVINE.     You  are  a  scoundrel,  sir! 

GULLY.  I  am  called  Lucky  Tom  Gully.  I  was 
born  a  gentleman.  A  gentleman  without  money. 
(Aside.)  Of  such  men  are  scoundrels  made. 
(Aloud.)  I  am  a  gentleman  by  birth,  a  gambler 
by  profession.  A  villian  from  necessity.  I  say 
marry  the  girl,  and  we  divide.  You  decline  ?  Very 
well ;  good-bye. 

DEVINE.  (Refusing  hand.)  You  scoundrel !  But 
you  are  at  least  candid. 

GULLY.  The  most  candid  man  you  ever  knew  in 
your  life,  sir,  and —  a  scoundrel.  (Enter  Mrs.  De- 
vine,  R.  Devine  throws  papers  on  table,  receives 
her.  Sam  exits,  L.  Snowe  greets  Mrs.  D.  Gully 
takes  papers  from  his  pocket  and  exchanges  them 
with  those  on  table.) 

GULLY.     (Aside.)     Scoundrel,  am  I? 

DEVINE.  O,  Mother,  I  am  so  glad  you  have 
come  before — before  I  go. 

[72] 


FORTY-NINE 

MRS.  D.     Before  you  go,  Charley? 

DEVINE.  Yes,  Mother,  I  did  not  want  to  tell  you 
myself,  but  now  I  must.  I  go  to  California  to-night. 

MRS.  D.  To  California?  No!  No!  Not  there. 
Not  to  that  place  of  all  places  in  the  world.  Not 
there,  not  there,  I  implore  you. 

DEVINE.  Mother,  I  must  go.  There  is  no  escap 
ing  ;  I  must  and  must  go  to-night — now.  And  why 
have  you  such  a  horror  of  California? 

MRS.  D.  My  son,  hear  me,  hear  me.  Your 
father  is  buried  there.  This  you  know.  I  never 
speak  of  it,  for  it  breaks  my  heart.  No,  no,  not  to 
California.  That  cost  your  father  his  life. 

DEVINE.  Then  mother,  I  am  going  to  find  my 
father's  grave. 

MRS.  D.  Charley,  you  may  find  a  grave  there  if 
you  go.  You  will  find  only  a  grave  here  when 
you  return.  (Enter  Sam.) 

SAM.  Only  jest  time  to  catch  de  boat,  Massa 
Charley. 

DEVINE.  Farewell,  mother.  It  is  my  duty,  and 
I  must  go.  (Embraces,  catches  up  papers,  seals 
envelope,  crosses  to  Snowe,  L.  and  takes  his  hand.) 
To  your  care  I  entrust  her.  (Exit,  Sam  following.) 

SNOWE.  Confound  the  fellow;  he  has  made  me 
cry.  (Looking  after,  with  Mrs.  D.  up  stage.) 

GULLY.  (Taking  out  papers  exultingly.)  They 
are  mine !  Mine !  And  she  shall  be  mine !  Fool ! 
Go  on  your  fool's  errand,  7  shall  be  tlide  before  you. 
You  will  find  the  game  bagged. 

Curtain. 


[73] 


FORTY-NINE 


ACT  II. 


SCENE:  Gambling  House  in  Southern  Sierras — 
Mississip  at  Table,  dealing  Faro — Gully  and 
Col.  Billy  Playing  —  Belle  Watching  Game  — 
Miners  Grouped  About. 

MISSISSIP.  All  down !  Down  your  bets  !  The 
game  is  made !  Roll !  And  again  lucky  Mississip 
rakes  in  the  money. 

COL.  BILLY.    I  have  lost  my  alee ! 

GULLY.     Ante,  Col.  Billy,  and  pass  the  buck. 

COL.  B.     Lucky  Tom,  you  (hie)  got  my  last  cent. 

GULLY.  And  intend  to  keep  it,  too.  You  see, 
you  have  been  rather  rough  on  me  since  I  came  to 
this  camp.  I  owe  you  a  grudge  and  I  intend  to 
pay  it. 

COL.  B.  Well,  I'm  glad  there  is  something  you 
intend  to  pay,  if  it  is  only  your  grudges. 

GULLY.     What's  that,  you   old  beggar! 

Miss.     No;  don't  kill  the  man  in  the  house. 

COL.  B.  No!  Don't  kill  a  man  in  the  house;  it 
might  stop  the  Faro  game.  Take  'em  outside  if  you 
want  to  (hie)  shoot  'em.  Total  wreck!  Total 
wreck ! 

Miss.  All  down !  Down  your  bets  !  The  game 
is  made !  Roll. 

COL.  B.  Mississip,  where  is  Carrots?  I  didn't 
come  here  to  gamble  and  get  drunk.  I  came  to  see 
her  and  (hie)  hear  her  sing. 

Miss.  Where's  Carrots?  Out  with  old  Forty- 
Nine,  when  she  ought  to  be  at  work.  O,  won't  I 
make  it  hot  for  her  when  she  comes  in !  Roll ! 

COL.  B.  (Aside  to  miners.)  Bet  the  old  cat  has 
got  her  locked  up  in  that  'ere  cellar.  I  tell  you 
[74] 


FORTY-NINE 

boys  we  ought  to  do  something  for  that  little  gal, 
even  if  she  is  a  saucy  imp,  and  all  that.  Old  Forty- 
Nine  can't  keep  her  any  more.  He's  all  busted  up 
and  about  starvin'  himself.  That  old  tunnel.  Humph ! 
She  has  to  go  to  sing  and  dance  to  get  a  bit  of  bread. 
Total  wreck,  total  wreck.  (Entreats  barkeeper  for 
drink,  who  shakes  head.  Miss,  also  refuses.)  Total 
wreck!  Total  wreck! 

GULLY.     O,  go  'way  and  don't  bother  the  game. 

Miss.     Put  him  out,  Lucky  Tom,  put  him  out. 

COL.  B.  You  better  order  your  coffin,  (hie)  be 
fore  you  try  it.  I'm  one  of  the  old  'uns,  I  am. 
Don't  care  if  you  do  carry  a  bowie.  I  came  to  this 
'ere  camp  too  early  in  the  mornin'.  Why  you  only 
came  here  last  month  and  you  think  you  own  the 
town.  Put  me  out !  I  should  radiate.  Used  them 
things  for  tooth-picks  in  '49  and  spring  of  '50. 

BELLE.  Well,  Col.  Billy,  if  he  wants  to  put  you 
out  he  will. 

COL.  B.  Your  humble  servant,  Miss,  but  he  don't 
want  to,  he  don't  want  to  (hie)  put  me  out. 

BELLE.     No,  no,  he  don't  want  to;  do  you  dear? 

GULLY.     Not  if  he  behaves  himself,  my  darling. 

COL.  B.  Well,  all  I  want  to  know  is,  Mississip, 
where's  Carrots,  and  why  don't  you  get  her  clothes 
like  this  one's  ?  Carrots  does  all  the  work  and  Belle 
wears  all  the  clothes. 

Miss.  Because,  Belle  is  a  lady  and  Carrots  is 
nothing  but  a  little  saucy  Injin  and  don't  deserve 
good  clothes.  And  now,  d'ye  mind  that.  The 
Injin! 

COL.  B.  Injin!  Injin!  Well,  she's  the  whitest 
Injin  I  ever  seed.  A  red-headed  Injin.  Say,  Belle's 
blacker  than  forty  Carrots. 

[75] 


FORTY-NINE 

GULLY.  Now,  you  (Is  about  to  draw 

bowie.) 

COL.  B.  Why  don't  you  pull  it?  I  want  to  see 
it ;  hain't  seed  a  bowie  since  '49.  Bah !  You  cow 
ard  !  ( Carrots  sings  outside.  Miners  all  turn  and 
listen.)  That's  Carrots!  That's  our  Carrots,  boys! 

BELLE.  (Aside.)  That  hateful  Carrots.  The 
men  all  turn  from  me  to  hear  her  sing.  The  hateful 
singe-cat.  I  despise  her. 

COL.  B.  That's  Carrots!  That's  Carrots:  and 
old  Forty-Nine,  my  chum,  ain't  far  off.  , 

BELLE.     I  don't  see  what  Forty-Nine  sees  in  her. 

COL.  B.  Don't  see  what  Forty-Nine  sees  in  her? 
Why,  he  sees  in  her,  soul,  (hie)  heart,  humanity. 
She's  the  sunshine  of  his  life.  She's  the  champagne 
and  cocktails  of  this  'ere  camp,  too.  (Miners  ap 
plaud.  Miss,  starts  up  angrily,  and  they  shrink 
back.) 

[Enter  Carrots,  singing  snatches  of  song,  bow  and 
arrows  in  hand,  dress  all  torn,  hat  hanging  by  its 
strings,  and  hair  unkempt.} 

CARROTS.  (  Flourishing  bow  and  arrows.  ) 
Knocked  a  chipmunk  clean  out  of  a  pine  top,  Col. 
Billy.  Yes,  I  did.  Old  Forty-Nine  was  with  me 
away  up  yonder.  Yes,  and  he's  come  home  by  his 
tunnel  to  give  my  flowers  to  old  sick  Jack.  Be  here 
in  a  minute. 

Miss.  (Storms  across  stage;  miners  in  terror  of 
her.)  She's  broken  up  the  game.  Here!  (Seizes 
Carrots  by  hair.} 

CARROTS.  Oh!  oh!  Now  you  jest  let  up!  Let 
down !  Let  go ! 

Miss.  Give  me  that,  and  tell  me  where  you've 
been. 

CARROTS.     O,  please,  Mississip !    Please  let  go  my 

[76] 


FORTY-NINE 

bow,  and  I'll  never,  never,  never (Lets  go.) 

You  old  hippopotamus.  Notion  to  knock  you  like  I 
did  chipmunk.  (As  if  shooting.) 

GULLY.  You  imp!  Youlnjin!  (Cuffs  her,  and 
takes  bow  behind  bar.) 

Miss.  Now,  you  ever  dare  touch  that  bow  and 
arrows  again,  and  I'll  skin  you  alive. 

CARROTS.  Can't  I  have  my  bow?  Forty-Nine 
made  it  for  me.  It's  mine.  Why  can't  I  have  my 
bow? 

MINERS.  Yes,  why  can't  she (Miss,  starts 

for  them,  and  they  shrink  in  terror.) 

Miss.     No !      You  can't  have  your  bow. 

CARROTS.  Well,  Belle's  got  a  beau,  think  you 
might  let  me  have  mine. 

Miss.  Here!  Come  here!  (Seizes  Carrots 
again  by  hair.)  Now,  do  you  get  into  the  kitchen 
there  and  stay  there  till  the  dishes  are  all  washed, 
or  down  into  the  cellar  you  go.  (Drags  her  to  door, 
L.)  Do  you  hear,  you  brat?  You  beggar? 

COL.  B.     Shame  !     Don't  kill  the  gal. 

Miss.     Mind  your  own  business. 

COL.  B.     Well,  this  is  my  business.      (Crosses.) 

GULLY.     No  you  don't.      (Thrusts  him  back.) 

Miss.  Bite  me,  will  you?  (Hits  and  throws  her 
in  corner,  L.  Miners  start  to  help;  Miss,  drives  back 
and  they  down  R.  Enter  Forty-Nine,  C.  with 
Squirrel  and  comes  down  to  miners,  R.  C.,  laugh 
ing.) 

'49.  Plenty  water  for  the  miners  now.  Phew ! 
What  a  storm.  But  I  found  her,  Col.  Billy.  (Billy 
kicks  out  at  Miss,  and  miners  all  try  to  attract  his 
attention  to  her.)  Yes,  I  did.  And  where  do  you 
think  ?  Why,  away  up  the  mountain,  yonder,  nearly 
agin'  the  snow;  and  pickin'  of  flowers  for  old  sick 
[77] 


FORTY-NINE 

Jack,  and  a  singin'  too,  like  a  robin,  all  to  herself. 
Ha,  ha,  ha.  And  that's  the  way  I  found  her.  And 
a  comin'  back  she  shot  that  squirrel  with  her  bow. 
Knocked  its  eye  out  away  up  in  the  top  of  a  pine. 
But  where  is  she?  (Carrots  attempts  to  rise.  Miss. 
forces  her  back.  Miners  signing  Forty-Nine  to 
look.)  And  what's  the  matter  with  you  all?  And 
where's  the  old  hippopotamus? 

Miss.  Where's  the  old  hippopotamus,  eh?  Well, 
here  she  is,  and  I'm  just  going  to  stamp  the  life 
out  of  this  brat!  (Throws  her  again  on  floor.) 
And  you  dare  interfere.  (Is  about  to  stamp.  Forty- 
Nine  rushes  up,  seizes  her  with  show  of  strength 
and  holds  her  at  arms  length.) 

'49.     O,  I  guess  not. 

Miss.     You !    You !    I'll  pizen  you. 

'49.  What's  that?  say!  (Leads  her  to  chair  and 
forcibly  seats  her.)  Now,  you  take  an  old  man's 
advice  and  let  that  gal  alone.  What  right  have 
you  to  strike  her  anyhow? 

Miss.     Well,  I  brung  her  up,  and  I 

'49.  Brung  her  up?  Yes,  on  sage  brush.  (Car 
rots  down  stage,  and  hides  from  Miss,  behind  Forty- 
Nine.  He  sits  with  her,  puts  back  her  hair  from 
her  face,  and  kisses  her.  Col.  B.  comes  forward.) 
Well,  Col.  Billy,  old  pard,  how  are  you? 

COL.  B.  (Spitting  cotton.)  Dry,  very  dry. 
Total  wreck,  and  dry.  (Miss,  shakes  her  fist,  and 
talks  to  Gully.) 

'49.  Dry?  Ha!  ha!  Well,  I  ain't.  That  old 
tunnel  is  drip,  drip,  drip.  Oh!  my  rheumatics! 
I'm  not  dry.  I  hain't  been  dry  for  nigh  onto  twenty 
years,  Col.  Billy. 

COL.  B.  Well,  I've  been  dry  for  nigh  onto  a 
thousand  years,  seems  to  me. 

[78] 


FORTY-NINE 

'49.  Billy,  just  wait.  Just  wait  till  I  strike  it 
in  that  tunnel,  and  we'll  go  to  New  York  and  buy — 
buy  the  Astor  House.  Yes,  we  will,  bar  and  all. 

COL.  B.  Good!  good!  But  you  won't  strike  it. 
No,  you  won't  never  strike  it  while  I  live.  Why,  if 
I  wait  for  you  to  strike  it  in  that  old  tunnel,  I'll 
be  so  dry — well,  I'll  be  all  evaporated. 

'49.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  There's  gold  in  there.  I've 
been  here  since  '49,  and  I'd  ought  to  know.  I'll 
strike  it  yet,  Col.  Billy.  And  you  won't  evaporate. 

COL.  B.  Yes,  I  will  evaporate.  We  all  will. 
Won't  we,  boys? 

'49.  Well,  then,  come,  let's  have  a  drink.  Come 
boys.  (All  rush  to  bar.)  I  feel  chilled  to  the  bone. 
(Leading  Carrots,  who  makes  faces  at  Miss.)  See 
there,  boys.  She  did  it.  Took  its  eye  out  with  the 
bow  and  arrows  I  made  for  her.  There,  bar-keep. 
Have  it  for  your  dinner.  Might  have  a  meaner  one. 
Yes,  you  might  have  a  worse  dinner  than  a  chip 
munk,  bar-keep.  (Col.  B.  is  very  thirsty.)  Why, 
when  I  came  her  in  '49,  that  'ere  squirrel  would  ha' 
been  a  dinner  fit  for  a  king.  Tough  times,  then,  I 
tell  you.  Them's  the  times,  too,  when  we  used  to 
have  a  man  for  breakfast ;  women  was  so  bad,  and 
whiskey  was  so  bad,  Col.  Billy.  Yes,  yes.  But 
now  that  I've  that  tunnel,  and  am  going  to  strike  it 
right  away,  I  wouldn't  eat  chipmunk,  no!  (Raises 
his  glass,  all  eager;  and  then  drops  again.  Miners 
disappointed.)  And,  when  I  do  strike  it  and  get 
back  to  my  wife  and  little  blue-eyed  baby  in  the 
cradle,  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi — (Carrots 
clings  to  him.)  O,  I'll  take  you,  my  girl.  Oh, 
never  do  you  fear,  I'll  take  you.  And  I'll  take  a 
big  buckskin  bag  of  gold-dust,  yellow  and  rich 
and  beautiful,  as  your  beautiful  hair,  my  girl. 

[79] 


FORTY-NINE 

And  we  won't  let  'em  know  we're  comin'.  No. 
We'll  just  slip  up  to  the  cabin  there ;  slip  up  through 
the  corn,  and  just  slip  in  quiet  like,  while  my  wife's 
busy,  and  looking  the  other  way,  and  then  we'll 
crawl  up  to  the  little  cradle  settin'  there  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  and  we'll  just  pour  the  gold  down  at 
that  baby's  feet  as  it  lies  there  a  crowin'  and  my 
wife  will  turn  and  see  it  all — Gold !  Gold ! !  Gold ! ! ! 

COL.  B.  Forty-Nine!  Forty-Nine!  You  must'nt 
think  of  that,  you  know.  Your  head.  You  mustn't 
talk  of  the  States.  You  know  it  makes  you  wild  to 
talk  of  the  States. 

'49.  I  forgot,  I  forgot.  Forgive  me  boys.  Here's 
to — to — to — her.  (Enter  Devine  C.) 

'49.     'Frisco  chap,  eh?    Have  a  drink,  stranger? 

DEVINE.     No,  I  rarely  drink,  thank  you. 

COL.  B.  Rarely  drink!  Well,  he  ain't  from 
'Frisco. 

GULLY.  (Aside;  starts  up  from  table.)  Charley 
Devine !  By  all  that's  devilish !  He's  found  this 
out  of  the  way  place  without  papers  and  without 
money.  Well.  Here's  for  the  old  game  of  bluff. 
Fortune  favors  the  brave.  Hello,  Charley  ? 

DEVINE.  Gully!  You  here?  Gully!  Lucky 
Tom  Gully.  Well,  I'm  the  lucky  man  this  time,  for 
I'm  flat  broke. 

GULLY.  (Aside.)  He  does  not  even  suspect  me. 
Well,  I'm  your  friend  and  will  help  you.  But  what's 
the  trouble  ? 

DEVINE.  Well,  you  see,  I  was  very  mellow  that 
night  I  started ;  had  gambled  off  all  my  money,  and 
when  I  awoke  in  the  steamer  about  noon  the  next 
day,  I  found  that  I  had  either  lost  the  papers,  or,  in 
the  hurry  of  my  leaving,  Col.  Snowe  had  given  me 
the  wrong  package.  Only  some  old  papers  of  yours, 

[so] 


FORTY-NINE 

where  you  had  been  sued  for  a  tailor's  bill.  Ha,  ha, 
ha!  Well,  you  know  how  gruff  and  stern  Snowe 
is.  I  couldn't  go  back,  and  then,  I  wanted  to  try 
and  find  something  about  my  father;  if  possible,  to 
find  his  grave.  And  as  I  knew  the  name  of  this 
place,  I  at  last  managed  to  get  here.  But  how  is 
it  you  are  here  ? 

COL.  B.  Treat  an  old  miner?  Been  here  since 
'49,  spring  of  '50.  Treat  an  old  miner?  Total 
wreck,  total  wreck. 

GULLY.     Billy,  you're  drunk. 

DEVINE.  Been  here  since  '49?  He  may  have 
heard  of  my  father. 

COL.  B.  What  might  be  your  father's  name, 
young  man? 

DEVINE.     Mr.  Devine — Charles  Devine. 

COL.  B.     Ah  !    A  gospel  sharp,  eh  ? 

DEVINE.     No;  not  a  preacher;  a  miner. 

COL.  B.  Devine;  Devine.  Where  have  I  heard 
that  name  before?  Oh!  Devine  blessing,  devine 

being.  Any  relation  to .  No  offence,  stranger, 

no  offence.  Total  wreck,  total  wreck.  (Crosses  to 
Forty-Nine.) 

DEVINE.    And  you  come  here  to  mine  ? 

GULLY.     To  marry. 

DEVINE.  To  marry?  Why,  there  are  no  mar 
riageable  women  here  in  this  dreadful  place,  are 
there? 

GULLY.  There  is  one  marriageable  woman,  and 
I  am  engaged  to  her. 

DEVINE.  I  congratulate  you.  I  congratulate  you 
with  all  my  heart. 

'49.  It's  queer,  Carrots.  The  new  one  looks 
square.  But  that  Lucky  Tom  is  three-cornered. 
He's  as  triangular  as  a  dinner  gong.  Let's  see 
[81] 


FORTY-NINE 

what's  going  on.  (Rises.  Carrots  dances  across 
before  miners,  and  stops  suddenly  in  front  of  De- 
vine.) 

CARROTS.     Hello!      What's  your  name? 

DEVINE.  Well,  my  little  lady,  my  mother  calls  me 
Charley. 

'49.  (Aside.)  Ah?  Somebody  used  to  call  me 
Charley. 

DEVINE.     Now,  what's  your  name? 

CARROTS.     Carrots  ! — Just  Carrots.     That's  all. 

'49.     Good  evening,  sir. 

DEVINE.    Good  evening.    Carrots !    Queer  name. 

'49.  Well,  you  see  we  baptize  everybody  over 
again  here,  and  give  'em  new  names.  We  call  her 
Carrots,  because — well,  because  her  hair  is  like  gold, 
sir.  Twenty-four  carats  fine,  and  all  pure  gold. 
That's  why,  sir.  And  sings;  why,  she  sings  like  a 
bird.  (Carrots  sings  a  couplet  and  dances.)  Just 
look  at  that.  When  I  strike  it  in  my  tunnel,  I'm 
goin'  to  take  her  back  with  me  to  the  States  to  tend 
and  sing  to  my  little  baby.  Have  a  drink,  Mr. — Mr. 
—Charley? 

DEVINE.  Well, — Thank  you.  Don't  care  if  I  do. 
It's  damp  out  of  doors.  Then  I  want  to  know  you 
better,  sir.  You  look  to  me  as  if  you  might  be  the 
king  of  these  Sierras.  Yes,  I  will  drink  with  you. 

'49.  That's  right.  You  see  I'm  old  Forty-Nine. 
The  boys  all  know  me.  I'm  goin'  to  strike  it  in  my 
tunnel  next  week,  and  go  back  to  the  States.  I'm 
tired  of  this.  Tired,  tired.  I  want  to  see  my  wife 
and  baby. 

DEVINE.     Why,  what  part  of  the  States? 

COL.  B.  (To  Devine.)  Stranger!  Mr.  Charley. 
Don't,  don't  you  never  git  him  on  that.  He's  a 
little.  (Taps  head.)  You  see  he's  been  waitin'  so 

[82] 


FORTY-NINE 

long,  and  been  hopin'  so  long,  its  turned  him  jest 
a  little.  No.  Never  let  him  talk  about  that.  He's 
all  right  on  other  things,  but  not  that.  Never, 
never  let  him  talk  of  the  States,  Stranger. 

DEVINE.     Well,  then,  I  won't. 

CARROTS.     (Crosses  to  Miss.)      I  want  my  bow. 

DEVINE.  Daughters  of  hers,  eh?  Well,  they 
don't  look  much  like  sisters. 

'49.  They  ain't.  That  is,  I  reckon  they  ain't, 
though  she  says  they  are  her  daughters.  But  guess 
they  ain't.  I've  been  here  since  '49  and  I'd  ought 
to  know. 

Miss.     Go  and  wash  them  dishes  I  say. 

'49.     Now,  look  at  that. 

DEVINE.  Well,  I  should  think  neither  of  them 
were  her  daughters.  It  is  one  of  the  laws  of  nature 
that  monsters  cannot  propagate  their  kind. 

'49.     She's  a  tough  citizen,  I  can  tell  you. 

DEVINE.  (Aside.)  Can  it  be  possible  that  one 
of  these  girls  is  the  child  I  am  sent  to  find?  (To 
Forty-Nine.)  Tell  me,  where  did  these  girls  come 
from? 

'49.  That's  more  than  the  oldest  of  us  here  can 
tell.  You  see  these  mountains  were  full  of  people 
once.  Full,  like  a  full  tide  of  the  sea,  when  we  first 
found  gold  here.  The  tide  went  out,  and  left  the 
driftwood,  and  sea-weed,  and  wrecks.  These  are  of 
them;  /  am  of  them. 

DEVINE.  But  Carrots.  Where  did  she  come 
from. 

'49.  Don't  know,  I  say.  They  took  some  In j ins 
to  the  reservation  that  she  was  with,  and  after  that, 
she  was  seen,  a  mere  baby,  begging  about  among  the 
miners. 

DEVINE.     And  when  was  this  ? 
[83] 


FORTY-NINE 

COL.  B.     Spring  of  '57. 

'49.  Yes,  guess  it  was.  He's  got  a  memory. 
Was  a  great  lawyer  once. 

COL.  B.  Yes.  And  don't  you  know,  Forty-Nine, 
we  first  called  Carrots  the  baby? 

'49.  Yes.  And  do  you  remember  the  time  she 
stole  some  raw  turnips  ? 

COL.  B.  Yes,  and  ate  them,  and  got  the  colic,  and 
like  to  died? 

'49.  Yes.  And  Poker  Jack  got  on  his  mule  to 
go  to  Mariposa  for  the  doctor. 

COL.  B.  Yes.  And  got  into  a  poker  game,  and 
didn't  get  back  for  four  days. 

'49.  Yes.  And  the  doctor  didn't  come,  and  so 
the  baby  got  well. 

COL.  B.     Just  so.     Just  so,  Forty-Nine. 

DEVINE.     Thank  you.     And  the  other  one? 

'49.  Well,  that  mout  be  her  child;  but  I  guess 
she  got  picked  up,  too,  by  old  Mississip.  Wanted 
'em  to  sing  and  dance,  you  know,  for  the  boys.  But 
you  see  Belle,  she's  stuck  up.  Guess  she's  got  blood 
in  her.  I  don't  like  her  at  all  like  I  do  my  little 
Carrots ;  but  I  guess  she's  better  stock.  Leastwise, 
the  old  cat  there  makes  a  heap  of  her.  But,  I  tell 
you,  she  just  knocks  the  head  off  Carrots  about  four 
times  a  day.  And  when  I  strike  it  in  that  tunnel, 

I (Enter  Carrots,  singing  and  laughing,  and 

gets  behind  Forty-Nine  for  protection.)  That's  her ; 
that's  Carrots,  all  over.  Got  no  dignity;  but  lots 
of  heart. 

DEVINE.  (Aside.)  This  can't  be  the  girl.  Water 
finds  its  level.  She  has  sunk  to  the  kitchen.  The 
other  one  is  the  lady.  I  will  talk  to  Gully.  He  seems 
to  be  most  intimate  with  her.  (Crosses  to  Gully.) 

'49.     What,  ain't  going,  are  you  ? 


FORTY-NINE 

CARROTS.  O,  yes,  Forty-Nine.  Let  him  go. 
You'll  drink  too  much  and  have  one  of  your  spells 
again.  Come,  let's  go  up  to  the  cabin.  (Steals  bow 
and  arrows.  Miss,  starts  up.  Carrots  escapes  to 
Forty-Nine.) 

'49.  What's  the  matter  now?  Poor  gal.  But 
don't  she  catch  it  when  I'm  sick.  Just  like  that  all 
the  time  when  the  boys  or  me  ain't  about.  What's 
the  matter  now? 

CARROTS.     She's  just  almost  scalped  me,  she  has. 

BELLE.     Here  Carrots,  bring  me  a  foot-stool. 

CARROTS.  There!  That's  for  your  feet.  Now, 
don't  you  want  something  for  your  head  ? 

BELLE.     Don't  you  make  faces  at  me. 

Miss.     Don't  be  saucy  to  my  darling,  you  brat. 

'49.     Come  here,  Carrots,  and  give  us  a  song. 

MINERS.     Yes,  a  song. 

CARROTS.     I  ain't  got  no  song. 

'49.  Yes,  just  one  song  for  the  boys,  Carrots, 
and  we'll  go  up  to  the  old  cabin. 

MINERS.     Give  us  "The  Days  of  Forty-Nine." 

CARROTS.  Shall  I,  Forty-Nine?  Will  you  all 
join  in? 

MINERS.     Yes,  yes. 

COL.  B.     /  will  assist. 

CARROTS.  All  right.  Join  in  the  chorus  all  of 
you.  (Sings.) 

We  have  worked  out  our  claims    we  have  spent  our  gold, 

Our  barks  are  astrand  on  the  bars; 
We  are  battered  and  old;    yet  at  night  we  behold 

Outcroppings  of  gold  in  the  stars. 
And  though  few  and  old  our  hearts  are  bold; 
Yet  oft  do  we  repine 
For  the  days  of  old, 
For  the  days  of  gold — 
For  the  days  of  Forty-Nine. 

[85] 


FORTY-NINE 


CHORUS. — Though  battered  and  old,  our  hearts  are  bold,  etc. 

Where  the  rabbits  play,  where  the  quail  all  day 

Pipes  on,  on  the  Chapparal  hill, 
A  few  more  days,  and  the  last  of  us  lays 

His  pick  aside  and  is  still. 
Though  battered  and  old,  our  hearts  are  bold. 
Yet  oft  do  we  repine 
For  the  days  of  old, 
For  the  days  of  gold — 
For  the  days  of  Forty-Nine. 

CHORUS. — Though  battered  and  old,  our  hearts  are  bold,  etc. 

We  are  wreck  and  stray,  we  are  cast  away, 

Poor,  battered  old  hulks  and  spars, 
But  we  hope  and  pray,  on  the  Judgment  Day, 

We  will  strike  it,  up  in  the  stars. 
Though  battered  and  old,  our  hearts  are  bold, 
Yet  oft  do  we  repine 
For  the  days  of  old, 
For  the  days  of  gold — 
For  the  days  of  Forty-Nine. 

CHORUS.— Though  battered  and  old,  our  hearts  are  bold,  etc. 

MINERS.  Bravo!  Bravo!  Bravo!  (All  feel  in 
pockets  and  sliake  heads.} 

DEVINE.  Here's  a  dollar  for  you.  (Aside.)  And 
the  last  I  have. 

CARROTS.  (Seeing  Miss,  watching.)  She  will 
lock  me  in  the  cellar,  and  take  it  away  if  she  knows 
it.  Mississip  will,  unless  I  give  it  up. 

'49.     Keep  it  Carrots. 

COL.  B.     I  say  Carrots,  let  me  double  it. 

CARROTS.     How  ? 

COL.  B.  Put  it  on  the  ace.  (Car.  laughs,  dances 
up  stage  and  back.  To  Chas.)  But  don't  you 
gamble,  sir.  Never  do  you  risk  a  cent.  But,  I  say, 
[86] 


FORTY-NINE 

this  'ers  the  winnin'  card.  Haven't  got  five  dollars 
about  you? 

CARROTS.  Oh!  Forty-Nine.  She  will  lock  me 
up  in  the  cellar  unless  I  give  it  up.  (Miss,  comes 
down  savagely.  Miners  give  way  before  her.  Seizes 
Car.  Grabs  at  money.) 

DEVINE.  I  thought  giants  lived  here,  who  righted 
wrongs  on  the  spot? 

COL.  B.     We  are  total  wrecks. 

'49.  Oh  yes.  The  victors  have  gone  away,  and 
only  the  unfortunate,  the  dead,  wounded  and  prison 
ers  are  left. 

COL.  B.     Yes  sir,  we  are  total  wrecks. 

DEVINE.  How  hard  the  old  monster  is  to  one, 
and  how  kind  to  the  other. 

'49.  There's  somethin'  wrong;  somethin'  wrong. 
Time  alone  can  set  it  even.  Come,  Carrots,  we  must 
get  back  to  the  cabin.  (Going.) 

DEVINE.  And  may  I  not  come  to  the  cabin  too, 
some  day? 

'49.  You  will  be  as  welcome  as  the  warm  winds 
of  these  Sierras. 

CARROTS.  We've  got  a  bull  dog  tied  to  the  door. 
Got  it  for  him.  (Pointing  to  Gully.) 

DEVINE.     (Laughing.)     I'll  come,  dog  or  no  dog. 

'49.  We  drink  water  out  of  the  same  spring  with 
the  grizzly  bear. 

COL.  B.    Drinks  water !    Bah !    Like  a  hoss ! 

'49.  I've  got  a  tunnel  there.  I've  bored  half  a 
mile  into  that  mountain. 

DEVINE.  I  will  come.  I — I — May  I  not  come  to 
night  ?  I  am  a  stranger,  and  poor,  and 

'49.  Poor,  and  a  stranger?  (Grasps  hand.)  You 
are  my  guest.  And  when  you  are  ready,  we'll  go. 

CARROTS.  (Aside.)  I'm  so  glad.  I  like  the 
[87] 


FORTY-NINE 

looks  of  him.  (Fixing  up.)  I  wonder  if  he  likes 
the  looks  of  me? 

DEVINE.  One  word  to  my  old  friend  here,  and  we 
will  go.  (Goes  to  table,  and  takes  Gully  aside.) 
I  can't  say  how  glad  I  am  to  find  an  old  friend 
here.  I  was  in  a  great  strait.  But  this  old  miner 
has  kindly  offered  me  shelter  in  his  cabin,  so  that  I 
am  all  right.  Still,  I  shall  need  a  few  dollars  to 
push  this  business  I  was  sent  out  on. 

GULLY.  Look  here !  You  are  an  innocent.  That 
business  don't  need  pushing.  I  will  attend  to  that. 

DEVINE.     What  do  you  mean? 

GULLY.  Just  what  I  said.  There  is  the  prize. 
There  sits  the  heiress  of  Santa  Clara.  Now  keep 
your  secret,  as  I  do  mine,  and  win  her  from  me  if 
you  can.  But  tell  her  who  she  is,  and  you  shall 
never  leave  these  mountains. 

DEVINE.     And  this  is  the  girl  you  are  engaged  to? 

GULLY.     The  same.     The  heiress  of  Santa  Clara. 

DEVINE.  And  you  intend  to  ruin  the  girl  I  have 
been  sent  to  save? 

GULLY.  Ruin  her?  I  intend  to  make  a  lady  of 
her.  What  is  she  now?  With  her  fortune,  I  will 
make  her  a  lady — and  myself  a  gentleman. 

DEVINE.     That  is  impossible. 

GULLY.     Beware ! 

Miss.  O,  I  say,  you  ain't  got  any  secrets,  eh? 
You  two  hain't  puttin'  up  no  game  on  we  uns,  eh? 

GULLY.  Secrets  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha !  I  never  saw  the 
man  before  in  my  life.  But  I  have  heard  of  him. 
(Aside  to  Devine.)  Now  you  know  the  game  I  play. 
Beware. 

DEVINE.  I  must  and  will  save  that  girl.  (Starts 
toward  Belle.)  I  have  a  duty  and  will  do  it. 

[88] 


FORTY-NINE 

• 

GULLY.  (Steps  before  him.)  You  must  and  shall 
keep  this  secret. 

DEVINE.  (Pushing  past  him  and  to  Belle.)  You 
must  not  marry  this  man  till  you  know  who  he  is — 
who  you  are — you  are  a  lady. 

Miss.     As  if  we  didn't  all  know  that. 

DEVINE.  Hear  me !  I  am  sent  here  to  save  you. 
The  proofs — the  papers,  I  had — 

GULLY.  (Steps  between  and  forces  down  stage.) 
And  I  have !  (Holds  up  stolen  papers.) 

DEVINE.     What !     My  papers  ! 

GULLY.  (Cooly.)  No,  mine!  "All  is  fair  in 
love  and  in  war." 

DEVINE.  Then  you  are  not  only  a  liar  but  a  thief. 
(Gully  grasps  bowie.  Forty-Nine  comes  down  C.) 

GULLY.  You  dare  defy  me?  Then  take  that. 
(Draws  bowie  and  makes  lunge  at  Dev.  Forty-Nine 
springs  forward,  catches  him  by  the  arm  with  great 
show  of  strength,  bowie  drops  point  into  stage.  Car. 
draws  bow  and  arrow  on  Miss.) 

Curtain. 


[89] 


FORTY-NINE 

ACT   III. 

SCENE  :  Cabin  L.}  old,  moss  grown — Practical  door 
— Cupboard  on  wall;  table,  benches,  background 
of  huts,  tunnels,  mining  tools,  etc. — Sunset  on 
snow-capped  mountains  in  distance  —  Time, 
Christmas  Eve. 
(Enter  Gully  elegantly  dressed  in  California 

Costume.) 

GULLY.  Lucky !  Better  born  lucky  than  rich  any 
day.  Lucky!  Why  they  called  me  Lucky  Tom 
Gully  on  the  Mississippi  steamers  when  I  was  a 
gambler.  Lucky  Tom  Gully,  when  I  was  a  loafer 
in  Chicago.  And  I  had  not  been  in  the  mines  a 
month  till  the  miners  called  me  Lucky  Tom  by  intui 
tion.  Lucky!  (Lights  cigar.)  I'm  to  be  married 
to  Belle  to-night.  But  somehow  I  don't  feel  quite 
solid,  with  that  young  fellow  and  Forty-Nine  at 
swords'  points.  I  must  make  up  with  them.  Let 
me  see — I'll  ask  them  to  my  wedding.  It's  a  bold 
stroke.  But  it  is  the  bold  stroke  that  wins.  Poor 
Charley  Devine.  I  quite  paralyzed  him  with  my 
boldness  when  he  first  came  to  the  camp.  He  has 
not  spoken  to  me  since.  Poor  simpleton.  Pegging 
away  in  that  old  tunnel,  without  a  cent,  or  even  a 
coat  to  his  back,  or  shoe  to  his  foot.  ( Carrots  sings, 
R.)  Carrots!  Why  am  I  afraid  of  that  girl? 
Afraid?  Is  it  fear?  Yes,  it  is  fear  that  drives  me 
to  make  friends  with  them — all  three — after  doing 
all  I  could  to  destroy  them.  An  honest  set  of  idiots, 
that  I  hate,  and  yet  fear.  (Enter  Carrots,  coming 
down  from  rocks;  carrying  basket;  bread  hidden  by 
flowers  and  evergreens;  singing.) 

CARROTS.     Hello !    Store  Clothes !    Now  what  do 

[90] 


FORTY-NINE 

you  want  in  old  Forty-Nine's  door-yard  ?  Better  not 
get  inside.  A  bull  dog  in  there. 

GULLY.  (Aside.)  Hates  me  as  bad  as  ever.  It's 
not  safe  to  have  such  enemies.  Carrots,  listen  to 
me.  I've  come  to  ask  you  and  Forty-Nine,  and 
that  other  fellow,  to  my  wedding. 

CARROTS.  You  don't  say  so  ?  Well,  I  don't  think 
Forty-Nine  and  "that  other  fellow,"  as  you  call  him, 
will  come  to  your  wedding.  But,  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
think  they  would  do,  if  you  like,  and  will  ask  them. 

GULLY.  Well,  my  dear  little  wild  flower,  what 
would  they  do  if  I  asked  them? 

CARROTS.     Do  you  want  to  know  right  now? 

GULLY.  Yes,  my  dear  girl,  I  should  like  to  know 
what  they  would  do  for  me.  For,  you  know  I  would 
do  a  great  deal  for  them. 

CARROTS.  Would  you,  though?  (Aside.)  O, 
don't  he  smell  sweet.  (Sits  at  table;  arranges 
flowers. ) 

GULLY.  Yes,  I  would.  But  what  is  this  they 
would  do  for  me? 

CARROTS.  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I  know  they  won't 
come  to  your  wedding.  But  they  would  both  be 
powerful  glad  to  come  to  your  funeral. 

GULLY.  Bah !  You  are  in  love  with  that  fellow. 
In  love  with  a  beggar.  Why,  he  has  not  so  much 
as  a  loaf  of  bread. 

CARROTS.     Well,  what  of  that  ? 

GULLY.     Why,  what  can  he  give  you  then  ? 

CARROTS.  That  which  is  more  to  a  true  woman 
than  all  the  gold  of  these  Sierras — a  true  man's  love. 
(Enter  Col.  B.,  R.  E.) 

COL.  B.  Banished!  Banished  by  the  vigilantes, 
at  last. 

GULLY.  What!  Driven  out?  (Aside.)  It's  my 
[91] 


FORTY-NINE 

work.  He  is  not  for  me,  and  is  therefore  against  me. 
He  must  go. 

COL.  B.  Yes,  new  people  come,  call  themselves 
vigilantes,  and  drives  us  old  ones  out.  It's  rough, 
it's  tough.  Total  wreck;  total  wreck. 

GULLY.  Well,  Col.  Billy,  shake  hands  and  part 
friends.  But  it's  too  late  to  set  out  on  a  journey 
with  your  blankets  to-night.  What!  Won't  shake 
hands  ? 

COL.  B.  Not  with  you,  I  reckon.  Not  with  you. 
Pretty  low  down;  total  wreck;  but  never  shook 
hands  with  a  man  that  shook  his  friends,  and  never 
will. 

GULLY.    What  do  you  mean? 

(Carrots  alert.) 

COL.  B.  I  know  you  are  a  vigilante.  Yes,  I  know 
you  by — by — the  pure  cussedness  that's  in  you. 

GULLY.    Why  I — I  am  not  a  vigilante.    I  am 

COL.  B.    A  liar. 

GULLY.    What? 

CARROTS.  Stick  to  it  Billy.  (Hands  him  knife 
with  which  she  has  been  cutting  flowers.')  He  is  a 
vigilante  and  the  worst  of  the  lot. 

COL.  B.  You  are !  And  you  are  the  man  that's 
been  sending  off  all  Forty-Nine's  friends  one  by 
one,  one  by  one.  And  at  last  you'll  send  him  off 
and  then  Charley.  O,  you've  got  devilment  in  you. 
But  I'll  go.  Total  wreck;  total  wreck.  I'll  see  old 
Forty-Nine  just  once  more  and  go.  Played  out, 
played  out.  An  old  miner  that  never  did  any  harm. 
That  for  twenty-five  years  dug  out  gold  from  the 
Sierras  to  make  the  world  rich.  But  now — never 
mind.  I'll  go.  I'll  go.  Total  wreck.  (Drops  knife 
on  table  and  exits  L.  I.  E.) 

CARROTS.    Now  do  you  see  what  kind  of  a  critter 

[92] 


FORTY-NINE 

you  are?  Poor,  poor  old  Col.  Billy.  Why  if  he 
owned  the  whole  Sierras  and  you  came  and  wanted 
it  he'd  give  it  to  you.  And  here  you  come  and  he 
must  go.  You  won't  let  him  have  even  a  place  to 
lie  down  and  die  in.  (Sits  and  again  is  busied  with 
flowers.) 

GULLY.  Carrots  don't  be  too  hard.  The  man  is 
sent  away  because  he  has  no  visible  means  of  sup 
port.  All  such  men  must  leave  the  camp.  I  am 
going  to  get  married  and  settle  down  and  I  want  a 
respectable  neighborhood. 

CARROTS.  Well,  we  can't  have  that  while  you're 
around. 

GULLY.    No  ? 

CARROTS.  No !  Guess  you'll  go  after  Forty-Nine 
next.  But  if  you  do  look  out  for  lightnin'. 

GULLY.  No  I  won't ;  all  such  honest  and  indus 
trious  fellows  like  he  is  will  remain  and  I  will  make 
friends  with  them. 

CARROTS.  Bet  you  a  forty  dollar  hoss  you  don't 
make  friends  with  him. 

GULLY.  O,  but  I  will.  I  am  going  now  to  the 
tunnel  to  find  Charley  and  Forty-Nine  and  I'll  bet 
you  a  new  silk  dress  they  both  come  to  my  wedding. 

CARROTS.  I  don't  want  any  of  your  old  new  silk 
dresses.  But  they  won't  come.  They  are  square, 
they  are;  not  two-faced  and  triangular. 

GULLY.  Why  Carrots,  what  do  you  mean? 
Come,  let's  be  friends.  (Attempts  to  embrace  her 
— she  starts  and  takes  knife.) 

CARROTS.  Look  here !  Do  you  see  that  California 
thistle  on  the  rocks  in  the  warm  winter  sun  ? 

GULLY.    Well? 

CARROTS.  Well !  But  yesterday  it  was  only  a 
weak,  helpless  plant  and  you  could  have  crushed  it 

[93] 


FORTY-NINE 

in  your  hand,  like  that.  But  now  it  is  strong  and 
sharp  and  able  to  take  care  of  itself !  Sabe  ?  Well, 
I'm  just  like  that.  Sabe  John? 

GULLY.  (Aside.)  Curse  her!  (Aloud.)  Well, 
good-bye,  for  a  few  minutes.  I  will  see  Charley  and 
Forty-Nine  and  you  will  all  come  to  my  wedding 
to-night.  Yes  you  will.  (Exit  R.  I.  E.) 

CARROTS.  (Alone.)  To-night!  Why,  this  is 
Christmas  Eve  and  I  must  sing  Forty-Nine  his  old 
song.  Always  on  Christmas  Eve  he  wants  this  song. 
(Sits  at  table  singing  old  negro  melody,  same  as 
Black  Sam  sings  in  last  act.  Looks  at  leaves  in 
basket,  makes  bouquet,  sets  it  in  old  can  on  table.) 
That  bread's  for  his  dinner.  (Sings.)  Wonder 
where  I  got  that  song.  Think  I  knowed  it  always. 
(Enter  Col.  B.,  L.  E.) 

COL.  B.  (Drunk  and  happy.)  That  ain't  Forty- 
Nine's  Christmas  song — hie — that  ain't. 

CARROTS.  What!  Not  gone,  Col.  Billy?  I'm 
glad  of  that. 

COL.  B.  I  got  a  drink,  (hie)  a  farewell  drink, 
down  at  the  forks  of  the  trail ;  a  real,  genuine,  good 
farewell  drink.  (Hie.)  Feel  better.  Won't  go 
at  all,  now. 

CARROTS.  Good!  You  stay  right  here.  This  is 
the  centre  of  the  earth. 

COL.  B.  It  is.  Why,  I  couldn't  leave  this  place 
now.  (hie)  I  should  go  round,  and  round,  and 
round,  like  the  sun  around  the  world,  and  never, 
never  git  away.  No!  I  guess  I've  dug  holes 
enough  in  the  Sierras  to  entitle  me  to  a  grave.  And 
I'll  stay — (hie) — go  right  back  up  to  town  and  stay. 
If  they  want  to  hang,  let  'em  hang.  Don't  care 
anything  to  be  (hie)  hanged!  (Exit  R.  U.  E.) 

[Enter  Devine,  R.  2.  E.] 
[94] 


FORTY-NINE 

CARROTS.    Why,  Charley,  how  excited  you  are. 

DEVINE.  No,  no,  never  mind  that;  where  is 
Forty-Nine  ? 

CARROTS.  Why,  he  was  up  to  town,  and  I  heard 
him  ask  the  store  man  for  credit;  and  the  store 
man  said  he  couldn't  have  even  a  cracker  any  more. 
So  he  limped  off  with  his  gun  to  get  somethin'  good 
for  our  Christmas  dinner,  I  guess.  But  what's  the 
matter,  Charley? 

DEVINE.  Nothing,  nothing  my  child — my  dar 
ling.  But,  can  you  keep  a  secret?  O,  I  do  wish 
Forty-Nine  was  here.  Can  you  keep  this  for  me? 
Keep  it  as  you  would  keep  gold.  (Gives  her  marked 
package  of  papers.)  You  will  keep  it;  and  the 
secret  ? 

CARROTS.  (Hides  in  bosom.)  Keep  it?  As  the 
stars  of  heaven  keep  the  secrets  of  the  better  world, 
I  will  keep  it. 

DEVINE.  Thank  you  !  Thank  you,  my — my — my 
— love,  my  life.  Yes,  yes,  I  love  you,  poor,  beauti 
ful  little  waif  of  the  camp,  with  all  my  heart.  But 
there,  I  must  back  to  the  tunnel  to  my  work.  Tell 
no  one  I  was  here.  Do  not  even  whisper  it  to  Forty- 
Nine.  There!  (Kisses  her.)  Good-bye.  I  will  be 
back  soon,  soon,  soon.  (Exit,  R.  E.) 

CARROTS.  He  kissed  me  !  And  he  loves  me !  O, 
my  patience !  Kissed  me,  and  kissed  me,  and  kissed 
me !  And  said  he  loves  me.  Kissed  me  three  times 
at  on'st.  It  took  my  breath  away !  O,  I'm  so 
happy !  (Stops.)  He  gave  me  this  to  keep.  I  won 
der  what  it  is?  And  I  wonder  what  the  secret  is? 
And  what  the  trouble  is?  But  no;  there  is  no 
trouble  now.  There  can  never  be  any  trouble  any 
more  now,  for  Charley  loves  me.  (Enter  Forty-Nine 
with  hairy  coon  and  gun.) 

[95] 


FORTY-NINE 

'49.  Hello,  Carrots!  (Throws  down  coon;  hob 
bles  to  her,  laughing.)  Come  down  to  take  dinner? 
Coin'  to  sing  the  old  Christmas  song  for  me? 

CARROTS.  Yes,  and  I  won't  never  go  back  to  old 
Mississip  no  more. 

'49.  That's  right.  You  stay  right  here,  and 
when  I  strike  it,  ha !  ha !  but,  won't  you  kiss  me  ? 

CARROTS.  (Business  of  fixing  mputh;  laughing, 
as  remembering  Charley's  kiss.)  Yes,  oh,  yes. 
There !  I  wanted  to — to — to — kiss  somebody  again ! 
(Forty-Nine  surprised.)  Does  it?  Do  you?  Did  it 

— did  it  do  you  as  much  good  to — to Do  you 

like  as  well  to  be  kissed  as — as Do  you  feel  as 

splendid  as  I  did  when — when Does  it  make 

you  tingle  all  over,  and  feel  comfortable  and  warm, 
and  summery  when (Hiding  face.) 

'49.    Why,  what  do  you  mean ! 

CARROTS.    He  kissed  me — he — Charley. 

'49.    Go — go — go — long. 

CARROTS.  Yes,  he  did.  And  he  said  he  loved  me, 
and  he  has  gone  back.  (Suddenly  very  serious.) 
No,  He — he — he  wasn't  here  to-day,  it  was  yes 
terday. 

'49.  (Gaily.)  Well,  I  don't  care  when  it  was,  or 
where  it  was.  He's  an  honest,  square  boy;  and 
when  we  strike  it  in  the  tunnel,  I'll  make  you  rich, 
rich.  But  it's  rough  times  now.  Hain't  seen  such 
times  since  '49. 

CARROTS.  Forty-Nine,  tell  me  something.  Didn't 
you  never  love  anybody  ? 

'49.  Why,  why  yes,  my  girl.  I — I  loved  my 
mother. 

CARROTS.  O,  please,  I  don't  like  mothers.  If  old 
Mississip  is  a  specimen,  I  tell  you  they  are  tough 
citizens. 

[96] 


FORTY-NINE 

'49.  What  do  you  say,  Carrots?  Speak  kindly 
of  our  mothers,  child.  We,  the  old  miners  of  '49, 
never  knew  friends  so  constant  as  our  mothers. 
When  we  came  away  out  here,  and  left  the  world, 
our  fathers  forgot  us,  our  sweethearts  married  and 
left  us,  but  our  mothers  waited  for  us,  and  waited 
and  waited,  and  then  they  died  and  went  to  heaven 
to  wait  for  us  there. 

CARROTS.  Then  I  wish  I'd  a  had  a  mother.  But 
I  reckon  I  never  had.  No,  I  guess  I  never  had  a 
mother,  Forty-Nine. 

'49.     Never  had  a  mother,  to  love. 

CARROTS.  No ;  guess  that's  why  I  love  Charley, 
ain't  it?  Didn't  you  ever  never  have  anything  to 
love,  besides  your  mother? 

'49.    My  child,  don't  ask  me  that,  don't. 

CARROTS.  Why,  I  won't  then,  Forty-Nine,  if  it 
hurts  your  feelin's.  But  I  kind  o'  like  to  talk  about 
love  now. 

'49.    Well,  what  is  it  I  can  tell  you? 

CARROTS.  Why,  about  yourself.  You  are  always 
shut  up  just  as  tight  as  a  bear  in  Winter  time. 
(Fixing  flowers.)  Weren't  you  never  young?  And 
didn't  you  never  love  no  girl,  like  me? 

'49.    Yes,  yes,  yes. 

CARROTS.    And  she  didn't  love  you  back? 

'49.     She  did !     God  bless  her ! 

CARROTS.  (Leaves  flowers  and  crosses  to  Forty- 
Nine.)  And  why  didn't  you  marry  her,  then? 

'49.  I  did — I  did!  Now,  Carrots,  you're  liftin' 
up  the  water  gates,  and  you'll  flood  the  whole  mine. 

CARROTS.  Well,  I'm  so  sorry,  Forty-Nine.  I'm  so 
sorry.  But  I  want  to  know.  I've  got  no  mother  to 
talk  to,  Forty-Nine,  and  I — I  want  to  know  how 
these  things  come  out. 

[97] 


FORTY-NINE 

'49.  I'll  tell  you,  my  honest  child,  just  blushing 
into  womanhood,  I'll  tell  you. 

CARROTS.  Well,  sit  down  on  this  rock  here.  Tell 
me,  now,  won't  you? 

'49.  (As  not  heeding  her.)  And  you  like  those 
lowly,  little  Winter  flowers  you  have  gathered  from 
the  rocks  for  Charley  and  me? 

CARROTS.  Yes;  yes,  they  are  lowly;  and  they 
ain't  big.  But  they're  so  sweet,  Forty-Nine. 

'49.  My  child,  in  this  cold,  hard  world,  the  sweet 
est  flowers  are  lowly.  The  sweetest  flowers  grow 
closest  to  the  ground. 

CARROTS.  And  you  did  love  her  ?  Tell  me,  Forty- 
Nine,  tell  me. 

'49.  (Still  evasive.)  And  Charley's  got  a  sweet 
heart. 

CARROTS.  Yes,  he's  got  a  sweetheart,  and  I've  got 
a  sweetheart.  Now,  didn't  you  never  have  a  sweet 
heart,  Forty-Nine? 

'49.  No,  no,  no — Shoo Do  you — you  think 

it  will  rain  this  evening? 

CARROTS.  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care.  I 
know  I've  got  a  sweetheart,  and  Charley's  got  a 
sweetheart.  And  didn't  you  really  never  have  a 
sweetheart,  Forty-Nine  ? 

'49.  My  child,  I— I Yes,  I'll  tell  you.  I 

never  told  anybody.  But  I'll  tell  you,  and  tell  you 
now,  and  never,  never  do  you  mention  it  any  more, 
for  I  can't  bear  to  think  about  it. 

CARROTS.  Why,  poor,  dear  Forty-Nine.  Why  I 
didn't  know  you  ever  could  cry.  There,  there. 

'49.  Well,  you  see  when  it  took  half  a  year  to 
come  here,  and  half  of  us  died  getting  here,  why,  the 
cowardly  didn't  start,  and  the  weak  died  on  the  way ; 


FORTY-NINE 

and  so  it  was  that  a  race  of  giants  came  here  in  '49 : 
men  that  could  die,  but  not  weep. 

CARROTS.  Yes,  I  know,  Forty-Nine.  The  old 
boys  were  the  best  ones.  But  there  ain't  many  of 
'em  now. 

'49.  Not  many  now.  They're  up  there  on  the 
hill:  up  above  the  trouble  of  the  world,  nearer  the 
pure  white  snow ;  nearer  the  great  white  throne. 

CARROTS.  O,  Forty-Nine.  But  her.  And  don't, 
please,  don't  cry. 

'49.  Well,  you  see,  that  little  baby  that  I  left  in 
the  cradle,  with  its  sweet,  young  mother  bendin' 
over  it — it  comes  before  me  all  the  time  when  I 
turn  back  to  think,  and  it  makes  me  cry. 

CARROTS.    But  she;  she  was  good  and  true? 

'49.  Good  and  true  ?  Good  and  true,  and  pure  as 
the  gold  I'm  to  find  in  the  tunnel,  and  make  you 
and  Charley  rich  with,  my  girl. 

CARROTS.    And  you  will  never  see  her  any  more? 

'49.  Yes,  yes,  when  I  strike  it  in  the  tunnel.  But 
then  you  see,  it  was  so  long,  so  long,  so  long.  When 
I  began  that  tunnel  I  was  certain  I'd  strike  it  in  a 
month ;  then  I  said  in  a  year.  And  all  the  time  the 
little  boy  baby,  crowin'  in  its  cradle,  and  its  sweet 
mother  bendin'  over  it,  waitin',  waiting  waitin'. 

CARROTS.  Dear,  dear,  old  Forty-Nine.  But  the 
little  boy  baby  is  not  in  the  cradle  now. 

'49.  Carrots !  Carrots !  It  ain't  kind  in  you  to 
say  so.  It  ain't  dead !  It's  there  !  I  can  see  it  now  ! 
And  her,  her  sweet,  pretty  face  bendin'  over  it.  You 
see  we  forty-niners  never  knew  much  of  books,  or 
were  much  for  writin'  letters.  And  then,  you  know, 
we  wanted  to  surprise  'em  at  home.  And  so  we 
didn't  write,  but  kept  waitin'  to  strike  it,  and  go 
back  and  surprise  'em.  A  year  slipped  through  my 

[99] 


FORTY-NINE 

fingers,  and  another,  and  another,  and  another,  and 
another.  And  all  the  time  these  mountains,  lifted 
like  an  eternal  wall  of  snow,  and  the  mighty  plains, 
bald  and  bleak,  and  vast,  rolled  like  a  sea  between. 
But  I'll  strike  it  yet.  I'll  strike  it  yet.  And  I'll  see 
that  little  boy  baby  there  crowin'  in  its  cradle,  and 
its  sweet  young  mother  bendin'  over  it.  Only  don't 
speak  of  'em,  don't  speak  of  'em,  or  you  will  break 
my  old  heart. 

CARROTS.  O,  I'm  sorry  for  you.  It  just  busts  me 

all  up.  I  wonder  if  Charley (Rising  and 

aside.)  Well,  I'd  never  let  Charley  go  off  like  that, 
no  sir'ee. 

'49.  But  there,  there;  never  mind.  I'll  see  that 
baby  yet.  Yes,  I  will.  I'll  heap  its  cradle  full  of 
gold.  Full,  full  of  gold.  And  you  are  going  to  be 
rich,  too,  some  day.  I  will  strike  it  yet.  You  will 
be  a  great  lady  some  day,  see  if  you  don't.  But  we 
must  get  dinner  now.  (Picks  up  coon.)  It  is  going 
to  be  a  glorious  good  dinner,  too. 

CARROTS.    What  are  you  going  to  have  ? 

'49.    This — coon ! 

CARROTS.  What's  Charley  going  to  have?  He's 
been  working  in  the  tunnel  all  day. 

'49.    He's  goin'  to  have  coon,  too. 

CARROTS.    He  won't  like  coon. 

'49.  Why  not?  Coon  is  better  than  horse,  or 
mule,  or  dog.  I've  tried  'em  all.  I  have  been  here 
since  '49,  and  I  reckon  I  ought  to  know ;  coon  is  the 
best  thing  for  this  season  of  the  year,  in  the  world. 
I  have  just  been  yearnin'  for  coon,  just  been  pinin' 
for  coon.  Set  the  table,  Carrots.  (Aside.)  Lord, 
how  I  do  hate  coon !  ( Going,  holding  up  and  talk 
ing  to  coon.)  O,  why  did  you  cross  my  path?  Why 
wasn't  you  a  deer,  or  a  grouse,  or  a  rabbit,  or  a 

[100] 


FORTY-NINE- 

squirrel,  or  anything  in  this  world,  but  a  horrible, 
greasy,  ring-tailed  coon?  (Exits  into  cabin  L.  2.  E.) 

CARROTS.  Poor  old  Forty-Nine,  and  he  loves  her, 
and  he  left  her,  too.  If  Charley  should  leave  me  like 
that,  I'd (Enter  Devine,  R.,  unobserved.) 

DEVINE.  You'd  what,  my  pretty  pet?  (Kisses 
her.) 

CARROTS.  O,  Charley!  Didn't  think  you  was  in 
a  thousand  miles  of  here;  or  I  wouldn't  have  been 
thinkin'  about  you  at  all. 

DEVINE.  And,  really,  you  ought  not  to  think 
about  me.  I'm  not  worth  thinking  about :  so  much 
trouble;  so  much  trouble. 

CARROTS.  Why,  what  trouble  can  there  be,  Char 
ley,  if  you  love  me,  and — and  I  love  you,  and  all  this 
beautiful  world  is  our's  to  love  in?  But  I  must  set 
the  table  now.  (Devine  kisses  his  hand  to  her;  sits 
on  rocks,  R.,  reading  letter;  Carrots  sets  table  and 
sings.)  O,  Charley,  did  you  hear  the  news?  Belle 
and — stop  a  minute !  Will  you  take  the  news  a  lit 
tle  at  a  time,  or  all  in  a  heap  ?  Well,  then,  here  goes, 
all  at  once!  They  are  to  be  married  to-night! 

DEVINE.  (Aside.)  Belle  to  be  married — to  that 
man!  And  what  will  Snowe  think  of  me?  He 
must  have  heard  it  some  how,  and  that  is  why  he 
comes,  post-haste. 

CARROTS.  And  you  used  to  like  her,  didn't  you? 
You  used  to  try  to  get  close  to  her,  and  say  things, 
didn't  you?  You  liked  her,  and  she  liked  the  other 
feller.  That's  just  always  the  way.  Nobody  never 
likes  anybody  that  anybody  likes. 

DEVINE.    O,  set  the  table.    I  never  loved  Belle. 

CARROTS.    You  never  loved  her? 

DEVINE.  I  did,  and  I  did  not.  Listen:  a  man 
with  a  heart  must  love  something.  Love — the  love 

r.ioii 


-FORTY-NINE 


of  woman — is  as  necessary  to  the  existence  of  a  real 
man  as  the  sunlight  to  the  life  and  perfection  of  a 
flower.  But  until  a  man  meets  his  destiny,  reaches 
his  ideal,  he  must  of  needs  reach  out  to  that  which 
is  nearest;  as  the  vine  climbing  feebly  up  to  the 
sun  lays  hold  with  its  tendril  on  whatever  it  can,  be 
it  foul  or  fair,  the  heart  of  man  takes  hold  of  the 
highest  nature  that  comes  near  his,  and  then  waits 
its  destiny.  Jealousy  is  borne  of  an  instinctive 
knowledge  of  this  truth. 

CARROTS.     (Starts,  comes  back.)    Hey? 

DEVINE.     You  don't  understand? 

CARROTS.    No ;  that's  all  Modoc  to  me. 

DEVINE.  Well,  you  will  understand  some  time. 
So  run  along,  now  I  am  sad,  and  must  sit  and  think. 

CARROTS.  All  right!  Just  so  you  don't  think  of 
Belle.  (Enter  Forty-Nine.) 

'49.  Hello,  Charley!  (To  Carrots.)  Them  your 
flowers  smells  so? 

CARROTS.  I  don't  smell  nothin';  except  Lucky 
Tom. 

'49.  I  do !  Whew !  Coon,  without  ingerons, 
without  crackers.  I  ain't  seen  such  times,  Carrots, 
since  '49. 

DEVINE.  I  am  as  hungry  as  a  wolf,  Forty-Nine. 
What  have  you  to-day,  for  dinner  ? 

CARROTS.  (Catches  up  and  hands  flowers.)  I 
brung  'em — I  brunged — I  bringed — I — brought  'em 
— from  the  mountains — away  up  against  God's 
white  snow. 

DEVINE.  And  you  are  His  angel,  sent  down 
from  the  golden  gates.  California  flowers.  Silent 
eloquence  of  the  voiceless  world.  How  beautiful! 
How  perfect,  and  how  pure?  When  my — what  is 
that  I  smell? 

[102] 


FORTY-NINE 

CARROTS.    Flowers ! 

'49.  No!  That's  the  coon — we  will  have  coon 
for  dinner.  It  is  a  dinner  fit  for  a  king — coon 
straight ! 

DEVINE.  (Laughing.)  If  it  tastes  as  it  smells,  I 
don't  want  any  coon  straight. 

CARROTS.  Yes,  guess  it  is  the  coon.  Thought  at 
first  it  was  the  flowers.  It  smells  strong  enough  to 
climb  a  tree  now.  Smells  stronger  than  Lucky  Tom. 

'49.  Now,  look  here,  both  of  you.  Just  listen  to 
me.  There's  a  certain  time  in  the  year,  in  this  pecu 
liar  glorious  climate,  when  you  require  a  change 
of  diet.  When  you  require  coon.  I  have  been  here 
since  '49.  I  reckon  I'd  ought  to  know. 

CARROTS.  Of  course  he  knows.  He's  right.  He's 
always  right.  I  know  that  coon  is — well,  coon  is 
coon. 

'49.  Yes,  that's  a  fact.  Why,  you  couldn't  have 
such  a  dinner  as  coon  straight  in  New  York  for  love 
or  money.  No,  not  even  in  London.  (Carrots  sets 
table  and  sings.) 

CARROTS.  There's  the  salt  and  the  mustard,  and 
where's  the  pepper?  Forty-Nine,  where's  the  black 
pepper?  Oh  here's  the  black  pepper.  And  here's 
the  red  pepper.  And  here's  the  grey  pepper. 

DEVINE.    Anything  else? 

CARROTS.  Yes.  There's  the  tooth-picks.  What 
magnificent  tooth-picks  for  this  time  of  the  year. 

'49.    Did  you  set  on  the  pepper  there? 

DEVINE.  (Sneezing.)  She  set  on  the  pepper;  and 
that's  about  all  she  did  set. 

CARROTS.  Dong,  dong,  ding  dong.    First  bell. 

'49.    Yes,  little  Sunshine,  let's  make  the  best  of  it. 

DEVINE.  Will  you  allow  me?  (Conducts  her  to 
table,  and  all  sit.) 


FORTY-NINE 

'49.  (Carving  coon.)  It's  a  grand  thing  to  live 
in  a  country  where  you  can  get  coon  whenever  your 
health  requires  it. 

CARROTS.    It's  a  delicious  coon,  Charley. 

'49.     (Eating  eagerly.)     It's  a  grand  dinner. 

DEVINE.    Some  bread,  please. 

'49.    Eh? 

DEVINE.    You  forgot  the  bread. 

'49.  I  didn't  forget  the  bread.  You  never  eat 
bread  with  coon.  Coon  and  bread  don't  go  together. 
Indians  never  eat  bread  with  their  coon.  I've  been 
here  since  '49,  and  I  ought  to  know. 

DEVINE.  But  I'm  not  an  Indian,  and  I  can't  eat 
without  bread. 

CARROTS.  You  don't  expect  to  get  everything — 
bread  and  coon — and — everything  at  once,  do  you  ? 

DEVINE.    I  can't  eat  this  without  bread. 

'49.  Look  here;  be  a  good  boy,  and  eat  your 
coon. 

DEVINE.    Hungry  as  I  am,  I  cannot  eat  this. 

'49.  (Rising  slowly  and  sadly.)  Well,  then, 
listen  to  me.  I  have  done  the  best  I  could.  I  tried 
to  hide  it  all  from  you,  but  I  can't  any  more.  A 
good  many  times,  lately,  I  have  said  I  was  sick,  and 
I  didn't  eat.  It  was  because  there  was  not  enough 
for  both  of  us.  I  wanted  you  to  eat  and  be  strong, 
so  that  you  could  strike  it  in  the  old  tunnel.  Now, 
there  is  nothing  more  to  eat.  Nothing  more  for  any 
one.  Charley,  more  than  twenty  years  I  worked 
on  in  that  old  tunnel  there — all  alone,  till  you  came. 
I  believed  every  day  that  I  would  strike  it.  All  my 
companions  are  dead,  or  have  made  their  piles  and 
gone  away.  All  along  the  long  and  lonely  road  of 
my  hard  life,  I  see,  as  I  look  back,  little  grassy 
mounds — they  are  the  brave  miners'  graves.  I  am 
[  104] 


FORTY-NINE 

the  last  man  left.  The  grass  every  year  steals 
closer  and  closer  down  about  my  cabin  door.  In  a 
few  years  more  the  grass  will  grow  over  that  door- 
sill;  and  long,  strong,  and  untrodden  it  will  grow 
in  my  trail  there;  the  squirrels  will  chatter  in  these 
boughs,  and  none  will  frighten  them  away — for 
Forty-Nine  will  be  no  more !  And  yet,  for  all  that, 
I  have  never  complained.  I  did  believe,  and  I  do 
still  believe,  we  will  strike  it  yet.  But,  now — but 
now  !  If  you  love  me,  eat  your  coon ! 

DEVINE.  My  dear,  old  partner,  forgive  me.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  of  this  before? 

'49.     If  you  love  me,  eat  your  coon 

CARROTS.  Take  a  tooth-pick,  then.  I  didn't  mean 
that,  Charley.  You  shan't  be  without  bread.  Here ! 
(Takes  loaf  from  basket  under  table.) 

DEVINE.    Why,  where  did  you  get  this? 

CARROTS.    Up  there,  of  her — old  Mississip. 

DEVINE.    Then  it's  her  bread,  and  I  won't  eat  it. 

CARROTS.  It  ain't  her  bread.  It  was  her  bread, 
but  I  stole  it,  and  it  ain't  her  bread  any  more. 

'49.    My  poor  child,  what  have  you  done ! 

CARROTS.  Nothin'.  I  knowed,  Forty-Nine,  you 
had  no  bread.  They've  got  lots  of  bread,  and  I 
don't  care  that — (snaps  finger) — for  the  whole  lot. 
(Devine  looks  troubled.)  Why,  it  wasn't  nothin', 
was  it,  Charley?  If  it  was,  I  won't  never,  never 
steal  any  more. 

DEVINE.  It  was  very  wicked,  a  crime.  Yet,  if 
you,  a  mere  child,  hungry,  knowing  neither  right 
from  wrong,  are  guilty,  for  taking  bread,  how  much 
more  guilty  am  I?  Forty-Nine,  hear  me.  (Starting 
up.)  That  man,  Gully,  came  to  me  to-day,  taunting 
me  with  his  good  fortune  and  my  misery.  He  came 
in  that  tunnel  to  ask  me  to  his  wedding.  And  there, 

[105] 


FORTY-NINE 

deep  in  the  dark  earth,  face  to  face,  man  to  man,  I 
fought  him,  overthrew  him,  weak  as  I  was,  and 
took  from  him  a  package  of  papers.  I  gave  it  to  her 
to  keep.  I  am  a  robber ! 

'49.  Why,  my  boy;  what?  what  do  you  say, 
Charley? 

DEVINE.  I  knocked  him  down  and  took  those 
papers  from  him. 

CARROTS.    Yes,  and  I'll  keep  'em,  too. 

'49.  Charley,  Charley!  The  Vigilantes!  The 
conscience  of  California !  The  Vigilantes  ! 

CARROTS.  (Taps  bosom.)  I'll  keep  it  till  the 
cows  come  home,  vigilantes,  or  no  vigilantes ! 

'49.     My  poor,  poor  pard. 

CARROTS.  Gully  is  one  of  the  Vigilantes,  Forty- 
Nine. 

'49.  Yes,  and  so  merciless  !  Give  me  the  package. 
(Hands  package.) 

DEVINE.    Why,  what  will  you  do  with  it? 

'49.  When  they  come  for  it,  boy,  as  they  will,  I 
will  give  it  up.  Yes,  that's  right,  Charley.  That's 
squar'.  They  won't,  you  know — they  won't  dare  to 
hurt  me.  Why,  I've  been  her  since  '49.  They  won't 
hurt  me,  boy.  I'm  old  Forty-Nine.  Oh,  they  won't 
hurt  me.  (Is  greatly  troubled,  but  affects  cheer 
fulness.) 

DEVINE.  You  take  a  great  load  off  my  shoulders. 
I  was  robbed  of  those  very  papers,  which  made  my 
mission  here  worse  than  useless.  I  wrote  back  to 
the  hard  old  lawyer,  and  he  has  answered  very 
gruffly  that  he  will  come  on  and  tend  to  the  business 
himself.  He  may  be  here  at  any  moment.  He  will 
find  me  a  robber  when  he  comes. 

'49.  There,  there,  my  poor  pard.  It's  all  right, 
it's  all  right.  Now,  Carrots,  this  is  Christmas  eve. 
[106] 


FORTY-NINE 

CARROTS.  And  at  ten  o'clock  tonight  I  am  to  sing 
you  your  song. 

'49.  To  sing  my  dear  old  song  for  me.  Now, 
don't  you  forget. 

CARROTS.  O,  I  won't.  Why,  I've  sung  that  song 
for  you  every  Christmas  eve,  haven't  I  ? 

'49.  Yes,  yes,  my  pretty.  (To  Devine.)  You 
see,  when  I  was  in  the — in  the — States,  my — my — 
we  always  sang  this  little  song  on  Christmas  eve 
together.  For,  you  see,  it  was  on  Christmas  eve 
that  she — well,  we  were  married  on  Christmas  eve, 
too,  ha!  ha!  and  so  when  I  was  comin'  to  Cali 
fornia,  in  '49,  we  promised  each  other,  that  wherever 
we  were,  or  whatever  mountains  or  seas  divided  us, 
we  would  each,  at  ten  o'clock,  precisely,  sing  this 
song,  and  think  of  each  other.  I  can't  sing  now,  but 
I  have  taught  Carrots,  and  she  sings  it  for  me. 

DEVINE.  (Aside}  How  strange!  My  mother 
taught  me  the  same  fancy.  (To  Forty-Nine.)  A 
beautiful  thought.  (Crosses  R.,  looks  at  sunset; 
dark  stage.)  It's  sunset  here,  and  so  it  is  ten 
o'clock  where  mother  is  now.  And  I  must  sing  the 
song  she  taught  me  to  sing  at  this  moment,  wherever 
I  may  be.  (Sings.) 

O,  sing  the  song  we  loved,  love, 
When  all  life  seemed  one  -song. 

For  life  is  none  too  long,  love, 
Ah,  love  is  none  too  long. 

So  sing  the  song  we  loved,  love, 
When  all  life  seemed  one  song, 

NOTE.  [Song  barely  audible  above  the  music; 
Carrots  and  Forty-Nine  attracted  rather  by  the  air 
than  the  words.  Forty-nine  starts  and  listens.] 

'49.     My — my — song. 


FORTY-NINE 

CARROTS.  Why,  Charley,  where  did  you  learn 
that? 

DEVINE.     Of  my  mother. 

'49.     Your  mother?     Her  name?     Her  name? 

DEVINE.    Mary  Devine. 

'49.  (Aside.)  My  son!  My — my — Charley,  I 
am  your 

CARROTS.  The  Vigilantes !  (Enter  Vigilantes, 
R.,  headed  by  Capt.  Hampton,  followed  by  Gully.) 

GULLY.    There !    That's  the  man  that  robbed  me ! 

CAPT.  H.  You  are  the  prisoner  of  the  Vigilantes. 
Iron  him,  men. 

'49.  Stop !  One  word !  You  all  know  me.  I've 
been  her  since  '49.  This  boy — what  do  you  want? 

GULLY.    The  man  who  robbed  me  of  my  papers. 

CAPT.  H.    We  want  the  robber. 

DEVINE.     (Aside.)     I  am  lost. 

GULLY.    Yes,  we  want  the  robber  and  the  papers. 

'49.  (Snatches  papers  from  bosom.)  Well,  here 
they  are ;  and  I  am  the  robber ! 

ALL.    What!   you,  Old  Forty-Nine? 

'49.    Yes,  I !    Old  Forty-Nine. 

(Two  men  seize  him  roughly  from  behind;  Car 
rots  throws  herself  on  her  knees,  and  grasps  his 
hand;  Devine  confronts  Capt.  H.) 

Curtain. 


[108] 


FORTY-NINE 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE. — Same  as  in  Act  $d — Morning  light  in  place 
of  sunset.  Two  Sentries  discovered  on  either 
side  of  Cabin  door.  Capt.  Hampton  at  table 
with  papers..  Enter  Col.  Snowe  and  Devine, 
R.  Sam  following  Snowe. 

DEVINE.  But  these  Vigilantes  are  so  merciless  I 
am  so  afraid  he  may  have  to  suffer. 

SNOWE.  Nonsense!  Never  fear.  I  never  lost 
a  case  or  made  a  mistake  in  my  life.  No  sir.  Never 
lost  a  case. 

DEVINE.  Well,  it's  fortunate  you  came.  Of 
course  he  has  no  money  to  defend  himself  with.  But 
I  tell  you  he  is  innocent.  And  rather  than  see  him 
suffer  I  will  proclaim  myself  the  guilty  party.  You 
will,  you  must  save  him.  If  he  dies,  I  die  with  him. 

SNOWE.  Stuff!  Gammon,  rubbish.  You've  got 
to  live ;  go  back  to  your  mother. 

DEVINE.     But  you  will  save  old  Forty-Nine. 

SNOWE.  Of  course  I  will  save  him.  I  never  made 
a  mistake  and  never  lost  a  case,  I  tell  you. 

DEVINE.  Oh,  I  am  so  grateful,  so  thankful  you 
have  come. 

SNOWE.  Yes,  you  see  your  mother  got  alarmed 
about  you  when  we  got  your  letter.  And  it  did  seem 
to  me  you  had  made  a  fool  of  yourself.  Yes,  fool, 
that's  the  word.  Why,  I'd  just  like  to  see  any  one 
of  these  Californians  twist  me  around  their  ringers 
as  they  have  you.  I'd  give  them  law !  law ! !  Yes, 
sir,  law !  And  now,  let  me  see  this  old  Forty-Nine. 
(Attempts  to  enter  Cabin;  guards  cross  guns.) 

CAPT.  H.  What !  Attempt  to  pass  the  guard  of 
the  Vigilantes? 

SNOWE.    I  am  a  lawyer;   must  see  the  prisoner; 

[109] 


FORTY-NINE 

client  of  mine.  I'm  a  lawyer.  Do  you  understand? 
A  lawyer  that  never  lost  a  case. 

CAPT.  H.    A  lawyer,  humph. 

DEVINE.  Oh,  Colonel.  It's  useless  to  tell  them 
you  are  a  lawyer.  Vigilantes  never  allow  lawyers  to 
interfere. 

SNOWE.  I'm  a  lawyer!  I'm  a  lawyer;  a  lawyer 
that  never  lost  a  case  or  made  a  mistake.  (Guards 
hustle  him  off  L.  Sam  hobbles  after.) 

CAPT.  H.  (Returning  to  papers.)  A  lawyer.  He 
must  be  a  stranger  in  California.  A  lawyer  to  inter 
fere  with  the  Vigilantes!  Why,  we'd  never  get 
done. 

DEVINE.  The  last  hope  gone.  (Enter  Gully  with 
Vigilantes,  R.,  Capt.  H.,  and  shake  hands  and  talk 
aside. ) 

GULLY.  Well,  Capt.  Hampton,  I  say  bring  him 
out,  and  give  him  a  fair  trial. 

DEVINE.  You  will  not;  you  dare  not  take  that 
old  man's  life. 

GULLY.  I?  No.  Of  course  I  shall  not  attempt 
any  such  thing.  The  law,  the  honest  miner's  law, 
the  law  of  the  Vigilantes,  must  take  its  course.  If 
a  man  can  be  knocked  down  in  this  camp  and  robbed 
of  his  property,  it's  time  we  knew  it. 

DEVINE.  (Pointing  to  door.)  But  you  know  he 
is  not  guilty. 

GULLY.  (Aside  to  Devine.)  Listen.  You  and  I 
know  a  great  deal  more,  perhaps,  than  either  of  us 
care  to  tell.  If  this  old  man  prefers  to  die  in  your 
place,  I  am  the  last  man  to  rob  him  of  that  privilege. 
Yesterday,  I  reached  out  the  olive-branch.  You 
chose  to  knock  me  down.  He  chooses  to  take  the 
responsibility  of  your  act,  trusting  his  gray  hairs  will 
save  him.  Well,  I  hope  they  may.  We  let  him  rest 

[IIO] 


FORTY-NINE 

all  night  in  his  own  cabin.    We  will  give  him  a  fair 
trial  now. 

DEVINE.  You,  with  your  mockery  and  show  of 
justice  are  the  devil  incarnate. 

CAPT.  H.  (Folding  up  papers.)  Bring  him  out 
and  place  him  at  once  on  trial.  (Guards  open  cabin 
door;  Forty-Nine  enters  from  same,  between  guards, 
followed  by  Carrots,  weeping.) 

'49.     Charley,  Charley,  my  poor  pard. 

GULLY.    Pretty  hard  on  the  old  man,  eh  ?  Carrots. 

CARROTS.  Now,  look  here,  Forty-Nine  never  hurt 
anybody  in  his  life.  He  didn't  rob  you.  He  didn't 
hurt  your  head  that  way;  and  you  know  it.  You 
got  drunk  at  your  weddin'  last  night,  and  fell  into 
a  prospect  hole.  Wish  you'd  broke  your  neck. 

CAPT.  H.  Have  you  any  witnesses  for  your  de 
fence?  The  Vigilante's  jury  wait  to  hear. 

CARROTS.    Yes,  he  has. 

GULLY.    What  witnesses?    (Enter  Col.  B.,  R.) 

COL.  B.    Total  wreck. 

CAPT.  H.  Hello!  Come  back  to  be  hung,  have 
you? 

GULLY.  What  can  you  swear  to  against  his  open 
confession  ? 

COL.  B.  What  do  you  require  a  gentleman  to 
swear  to?  I'll  oblige  you;  nothing  mean  about  old 
Col.  Billy  in  a  case  like  this. 

CARROTS.  I  tell  you  boys,  he  didn't  do  it.  Forty- 
Nine  hadn't  been  in  that  tunnel  for  a  month.  His 
back's  been  too  stiff ;  got  rheumatix.  Why,  he  can't 
stoop  down.  (To  Forty-Nine.)  Say  yes.  Don't 
shake  your  head  like  that !  Yes,  he's  got  rheumatix 
so  he  can't  get  up  when  he's  down,  and  he  can't  get 
down  when  he's  up.  And  the  idea  that  he  could 
whip  that  yaller  dog  there ! 
[in] 


FORTY-NINE 

'49.    Carrots,  don't;   don't  call  names. 

CARROTS.  Well,  he  is  a  dog,  and  a  yaller  dog  at 
that.  And  a  yaller  dog  is  the  meanest  kind  of  a  dog. 
Yes,  yaller  dogs  sucks  eggs. 

COL.  B.  Well,  I'm  a  witness.  I  swear  that  Forty- 
Nine  didn't  do  it.  I  swear  that  the  (hie)  yaller 
dog  did  it  himself. 

'49.  No,  no!  It's  all  right,  boys.  It's  all  right. 
He  has  been  robbed.  It  was  bad,  bad.  I'm  sorry. 
But  he's  got  it  back;  and  I  don't  deny  it. 

DEVINE.    But  you  shall  not  suffer  for  my — my — 

'49.  (Stopping  him.)  Shoo!  Speak  low.  And 
listen  to  me,  Charley.  In  the  right  hand  corner  of 
the  further  end  of  the  tunnel.  I  saw  only  yesterday 
that  we  were  on  the  edg  of  a  vein.  Right  on  the 
edge  of  a  vein,  a  seam,  a  river  of  pure  gold. 

COL.  B.  Bad,  bad.  It's  in  his  head  again.  (  Taps 
forehead. ) 

DEVINE.  My  dear  old  pard,  let  us  forget  the 
tunnel. 

'49.  (Tall  and  resolute.)  Forget  the  tunnel ?  For- 
get  my  twenty-five  years  of  life  there?  .My  wife? 

My  baby  in  the (Stops  and  shakes  his  head.) 

No,  there  is  no  baby  there  now.  The  baby  is  here. 
(Aloud.)  Charley,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask.  You  will 
do  it? 

DEVINE.    If  it  costs  me  my  life. 

'49.  No.  it's  not  like  that.  You  go  now,  right 
now,  into  the  tunnel  and  bring  me  the  last  quartz 
specimen  that  fell  from  your  pick 

DEVINE.    But  I  cannot  leave  you. 

'49.  Stop!  You  said  if  it  cost  you  your  life. 
And  yet  here  you  refuse  to 

DEVINE.     Forgive  me.     I   will  go.     But  what- 

[112] 


FORTY-NINE 

ever  happens,  you  shall  not  die.  (Embraces  him, 
and  exits,  R.) 

CARROTS.  There's  a  great  lawyer  come,  Forty- 
Nine. 

'49.  I  don't  want  the  lawyer.  I  want  you  to 
listen  to  me. 

CARROTS.  Yes,  I  am  listening  all  the  time.  What 
is  it? 

'49.  Carrots,  in  the  furtherest  right-hand  corner 
of  the  tunnel 

GULLY.  (Who  has  been  conferring  with  Vigil 
antes.}  Well,  if  you  all  insist,  of  course  we  must 
proceed.  (They  assent.) 

CAPT.  H.     Have  you  any  other  witnesses? 

'49.  I  have  no  witnesses  but  myself;  accusing 
myself. 

COL.  B.  Yes,  you  have  plenty  witnesses.  I  am 
a  standing  witness.  I  swear  that  I  was  with  old 
Forty-Nine  all  day  yesterday,  every  minute. 

CAPT.  H.    Can  you  swear  to  that? 

COL.  B.    Certainly,  (hie)  I  can,  and  I  do. 

CAPT.  H.    Hold  up  your  right  hand. 

COL.  B.  (Holding  up  left  hand.)  I  swear  that 
Forty-Nine  and  me  yesterday 

CAPT.  H.    Hold  up  your  right  hand. 

COL.  B.  (Turns  around,  and  again  holds  up  left.) 
I  swear 

CAPT.  H.  (Forcing  up  right  hand  roughly.)  Will 
you  be  sworn  now? 

COL.  B.    No,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  be  sworn. 

CARROTS.  Well,  I  will.  If  that  will  save  him,  I 
will  swear  it.  (Falls  on  knees  before  Capt.  H.,  and 
holds  up  hand.)  I  swear  that 

'49.  My  poor,  dear  child,  you  don't  know  what 
you  say.  (Stops  her,  and  turns  to  Vigilantes.) 


FORTY-NINE 

CAPT.  H.  And  now,  (to  Gully,)  what  have  you 
to  swear  to? 

GULLY.  Well,  upon  the  oath  of  our  order,  I 
swear  that  on  last  evening,  I,  on  this  very  spot,  after 
I  had  been  robbed,  accused  a  party  of  robbery,  and 
that  this  old  man  drew  this  package  from  his  breast, 
which  had  been  taken  from  me  not  an  hour  before, 
and  said  he  was  the  robber.  (Throws  papers  on 
table.) 

CARROTS.  No,  I  was  there.  I  heard  it  all,  and  I 
swear  he  never  said  it. 

CAPT.  H.    Did  you  say  this? 

'49.     (Bowing  head.)     And  I  say  it  now. 

GULLY.  You  hear  him?  (Stands  in  line  with 
Vigilantes. ) 

CAPT.  H.  What  shall  be  his  sentence?  (In  the 
line.) 

FIRST  VIGILANTE.     (Uncovering  head.)     Death! 

SECOND  VIG.    Death ! 

THIRD  VIG.    Death ! 

FOURTH  VIG.  Death ! 

GULLY.  (Uncovering.)  I  vote  for  life.  But, 
you  see,  my  voice  is  powerless.  The  majority  rules 
in  our  order,  and  already  the  majority  of  the  jury 
has  sentenced  you  to  death. 

'49.  I  am  satisfied.  (Aside.)  If  Charley  would 
only  come! 

CARROTS.  He  is  my  father,  my  mother,  my  all ! 
If  you  take  his  life,  you  will  kill  me. 

COL.  B.  Now  just  look  at  that  poor  gal.  Here ! 
He's  some  account.  If  you  want  to  hang  anybody 
hang  me.  Nobody  cares  for  me.  Total  wreck ! 
Total  wreck ! 

CAPT.  H.  Take  this  man  away.  He  ain't  worth 
hanging. 

[H4] 


FORTY-NINE 

B.  Pretty  low  down,  boys;  pretty  low 
down,  ain't  worth  hangin'.  Ain't  worth  hangin'. 
Total  wreck!  Total  wreck!  (Loud  talking  off  L. 
Enter  Snowe  L.  fighting  with  guards  and  forcing 
his  way.  Sam  behind.) 

SNOWE.  But  I  tell  you  I  will  come  in.  I  ain't  a 
lawyer.  No,  I  ain't.  I  am  a  witness.  Yes,  I  am  a 
witness.  And  I  never  made  a  mistake  or  lost  a  case. 

SAM.  (Getting  behind  Snowe.)  Yes,  he's  a  wit 
ness.  He  ain't  no  lawyer,  he  ain't.  Neber  was  a 
lawyer,  sah. 

GULLY.  (Aside.)  Snowe!  By  the  seven  devils  ! 
But  what  of  it.  I've  got  the  girl.  I  can  afford  to 
laugh  at  them  all  now. 

SNOWE.  Yes.  I'm  a  witness.  Keep  me  back  if 
you  dare,  and  I'll  send  the  last  mother's  son  of  you 
to  State  prison.  Yes.  I'll  give  you  law,  law,  till 
your  sick  of  it. 

SAM.    But  you  ain't  no  lawyer,  shoo! 

SNOWE.  No!  No!  I'm  a  witness.  (Crosses  to 
table.  Sees  papers,  takes  out  glasses  and  looks  at 
papers  and  at  Gully.) 

GULLY.  (Aside.)  Great  heavens!  I  must  get 
those  papers  from  that  table  or  I  am  lost.  ( Tries  to 
reach  papers.  Snowe  keeps  moving  between.  Sam 
follozving  him  as  his  shadow  and  trips  up  Gully  each 
time  he  nearly  reaches  papers.) 

SNOWE.    I'm  a  witness.    Not  a  lawyer;  a  witness. 

GULLY.  If  you  will  let  me  have  this  property  of 
mine 

SNOWE.    Gully !    Tom  Gully ! 

GULLY.  (Folding  arms  defiant.)  Yes,  Lucky 
Tom  Gully.  Perhaps  you  will  know  me  when  we 
meet  next. 

SNOWE.     Well,  I  think  I  shall.     But  as  I  rarely 

[us] 


FORTY-NINE 

visit  State  prison,  perhaps  we  will  not  meet  again 
soon.  (Another  effort  to  get  papers.) 

'49.  He  wants  his  papers.  It's  but  right  he  gets 
'em  back.  7  don't  deny  it,  sir.  It's  hard,  just  as 
we  struck  it  in  the  tunnel.  But,  sir,  you're  a  lawyer, 
take  the  tunnel  and  see  that  Charley  ain't  swindled 
out  of  it,  sir. 

CARROTS.  Now  you  just  hold  on,  Forty-Nine. 
Lawyers  is  smart.  And  I  heard  tell  they  can  make 
black  things  look  white  sometimes.  You  jest  take 
them  papers,  Mr.  Lawyer,  and  see  if  you  can't  save 
Forty-Nine.  Do  !  do  !  oh,  do !  Them's  the  papers 
that  makes  all  the  trouble.  ( Gully  grasps  at  papers.) 

SNOWE.    No,  you  don't.    No,  sir'ee. 

GULLY.    They  are  mine. 

'49.    He  says  they  are  his. 

SNOWE.  Well,  if  he  says  they  are  his,  that  is 
prima  facie  evidence  they  are  not  his.  (Takes  up 
and  examines.) 

GULLY.    This  is  damnable.     (Going.) 

CARROTS.    What's  your  hurry,  Store  Clothes? 

SNOWE.  Stop !  My  papers !  Gentlemen  of  the 
jury!  Gentlemen  of  the  villainous  Vigilantes'  jury! 
Mine  !  My  papers  !  There !  My  name !  Stolen 
from  me  by  that  man.  (Gully  going,  R.;  guard 
stops  him.} 

CAPT.  H.    You  lawyers  are  tricksters  sometimes. 

SNOWE.  We  lawyers  are  your  legislators  in 
peace,  your  generals  in  war,  and  your  gentlemen 
always. 

CAPT.  H.  And  these  are  your  papers,  you  say, 
stolen  from  you  by  him? 

SNOWE.  My  papers,  stolen  from  me  by  that  frag 
rant  and  highly  perfumed  thief.  There!  That's 
my  signature.  And  there !  That's  his  odor.  Smell 
[116] 


FORTY-NINE 

him?  (Enter  Devine,  R.,  with  quartz,  which  he 
throws  on  table.) 

DEVINE.  Yes,  and  it  was  I,  who  knocked  him 
down  in  the  tunnel,  yesterday,  and  took  these  papers 
from  him. 

CAPT.  H.    And  served  him  right ! 

CARROTS.  Ah!  Forty-Nine!  Forty-Nine  and 
Charley!  I  want  to  kiss  and  hug  you  both.  I'll 
hug  Forty-Nine,  and  kiss  Charley.  (Enter  Belle 
and  Miss.) 

GULLY.  My  wife !  My  poor  wife.  My  luck  has 
deserted  me  at  last. 

Miss.    Well,  if  luck  deserts  you,  look  out. 

DEVINE.     Your  wife? 

GULLY.  Yes.  We  were  married  last  night,  as  I 
told  you  we  should  be.  (Takes  out  handkerchief.) 

COL.  B.  (Sniffing.)  Well  it  can't  be  said  that 
he  married  without  a  scent. 

DEVINE.  (To  Snowe.)  This  is  the  young  lady 
I  told  you  of.  The  heiress  of  Santa  Clara. 

SNOWE.  The  dev — .  Beaten!  Beaten  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life.  (Captain  H.  makes  sign  to 
guard.) 

GULLY.  (To  Snowe.)  Save  me  from  the  Vigil 
antes  and  I  will  give  up  all,  wife,  estate,  all. 

CARROTS.    Sell  your  wife  to  save  your  life  'eh  ? 

GULLY.  Oh,  anything  to  escape  the  vengeance  of 
the  Vigilantes.  Anything!  You  don't  know  how 
terrible  they  are. 

SNOWE.  (To  Capt.  H.)  You  can  have  him,  we 
have  no  use  for  him.  (Guards  seize  Gully  and 
manacles  him.) 

CAPT.  H.    Your  hour  has  come. 

'49.  No!  Take  not  that  which  you  cannot  re 
store.  Consider.  He  is  not  fit  to  die. 


FORTY-NINE 

GULLY.  (To  Vigilantes.)  I  will  pay  thousands, 
thousands.  She  will  pay  you  and  bless  you  all. 

Miss.  Well  now  just  hold  your  hosses.  If  your 
luck's  vamoosed  you;  good-bye,  John.  (Belle 
crosses;  very  stately.) 

SNOWE.  And  this  is  the  heiress  ?  Well  she  looks 
it.  I  would  have  known  it  at  once.  Get  out  of  the 
way  here.  (Pushes  Carrots  aside  as  she  clings  to 
Devine.)  Sam!  Call  up  black  Sam,  and  let  us 
settle  this  at  once. 

SAM.  Well,  Massa  Charley,  pretty  rough  country 
round  about  heah,  eh?  How  do,  Massa  Gully? 
Won't  you  shake  hands?  Pretty  rough  country 
round  heah,  eh? 

SNOWE.  Sam,  look  at  that  young  lady.  Ever  see 
her  before? 

SAM.    Nebber,  Massa  Snowe. 

SNOWE.    Ever  see  anybody  that  looked  like  her? 

SAM.     Nebber,  sah ! 

SNOWE.  You  did!  You  know  you  did.  Now 
when  was  it?  and  where  was  it? 

SAM.  Nebber,  Massa  Snowe;  and  nowhar, 
Massa  Snowe. 

SNOWE.  Sam,  you're  a  fool.  Don't  you  know 
she  looks  like  Mrs.  Williams  and  Mr.  Williams  that 
you  started  to  cross  the  plains  with  ? 

SAM.  What?  Dat  black  face,  and  dat  niggah- 
lookin'  hair?  Why,  my  Massa  and  Missus  was 
white,  dey  wus. 

SNOWE.  Sam,  I  tell  you  you're  a  fool.  I  never 
lost  a  case  or  made  a  mistake.  It's  got  to  be  her,  I 
tell  you.  Think  I  came  all  the  way  to  this  place  to 
be  beaten?  Look  again. 

SAM.    De  more  I  looks,  de  wusser  it  gits. 

SNOWE.    I  tell  you  you're  a  fool. 
[118] 


FORTY-NINE 

SAM.  Now  you  just  wait,  Massa  Snowe.  (Begins 
old  negro  melody,  watching  Belle,  and  approaching. 
Carrots  examining  quarts;  drops  it,  rises;  comes 
forward  ;  listens. ) 

BELLE.  What  does  he  mean,  looking  at  me  that 
way?  (Sam  continues  singing,  very  soft  and  low, 
gradually  increasing,  keeping  time  with  hands  and 
feet.) 

O,  hallelujalem!    O,  hallelujalem! 
O,  honey,  won't  you  come, 
O,  honey,  won't  you  come, 
To  de  bussom  ob  de  Lord, 
When  de  world's  on  fire, 
When  de  world's  on  fire, 
To  de  bussom  ob  de  Lord. 

(He  and  Carrots  meet  face  to  face,  and  sing  a 
verse  together.) 

CARROTS.  It  is  the  dream  of  the  desert!  The 
massacre!  The  escape!  That  black  face — Oh, 
Sam !  Sam !  Don't  you  know  me  ?  dear,  old  black 
Sam? 

SAM.  (Falling  on  knees.)  Found!  Found  at 
last !  And  heah !  heah !  Bar's  de  bullet  mark  I 
tole  you  'bout.  Heah!  Massa  Snowe!  (Tears 
sleeve. ) 

SNOWE.  Eureka!  Never  lost  a  case  or  made  a 

mistake  in  my  life.  Belle,  you  may  go  to 

Jericho ! 

'49.  Yes,  let  them  both  go.  They  are  punished 
enough.  (Vigilantes  release  Gully.) 

Miss.  Yes,  come  my  daughter.  Let's  leave  it  all. 
(Takes  Belle  away  from  Gully.) 

GULLY.    Your  daughter?    Sold!    sold! 

'49.    Well,  I  thought  as  much. 

COL.  B.     The  Vigilantes  will  see  you,  and  your 


FORTY-NINE 

wife,  and  your  sweet  mother-in-law  out  of  town. 
(Exit  Gully,  Miss,  and  Belle,  escorted  by  Vigil 
antes.  ) 

CARROTS.  Now  that's  all  done.  (Picks  up 
quartz.)  But  just  look  here  Forty-Nine. 

'49.  What !  From  the  right  hand  corner  of  the 
tunnel  ? 

DEVINE.  Yes.  And  seamed  with  gold.  But  I 
was  so  blinded  and  bothered  I  did  not  see  it. 

'49.  Gold!  Gold!  Gold!  Enough  to  pave  a 
city.  And  now,  my  boy,  since  we  have  struck  it  in 
our  tunnel,  I  can  do  something  for  you  my — my  son. 

DEVINE.     Your  son? 

'49.  Yes,  my  own  baby  boy,  that  left  the  cradle 
without  my  knowing  it.  You  are  my  son.  You 
won't  be  ashamed  of  the  old  man,  will  you? 

DEVINE.  My  father  ?  And  that  is  why  you  would 
have  died  for  me.  But  come;  we  will  all  go  back 
together  now,  to  my  mother.  We  will  go  back  to 
gether  to  her  who  has  waited  as  you  have  waited. 

CARROTS.    And  leave  me? 

'49.    Leave  you  ?    You  are  to  be  my  child. 

DEVINE.    And  my  wife. 

CARROTS.     Oh  !    Charley ! 

SNOWE.    You  are  a  great  heiress. 

CARROTS.    Then  I  am  somebody  in  particular? 

'49.  Somebody  in  particular  ?  You  are  pure  Cali 
fornia  gold  and  twenty-four  carats  fine.  But,  come, 
let  us  all  now  go  back  to  the  States. 

COL.  B.    And  buy  the  Astor  House,  bar  and  all? 

'49.    And  buy  the  Astor  House,  bar  and  all,  Billy. 
But  first  you  must  learn  this:   That  success  is  only 
a  question  of  time  and  toil.    And  so  may  you,  and 
all,  strike  it  yet,  as  rich  as  this  California  gold. 
Curtain. 

[120] 


14  DAY  USE 

IRETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


APR 


55 


. 


APR  5 


MAY  1  7 

i 


31970 


.  5  • 


LD  2lA-45m-9,'67 
(H5067slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


GAYLORD  BROS. 

MAKERS 

SYRACUSE,  -  H.Y. 


